


A Treacherous Guide to Angelic Intervention

by Kitebroken



Category: A Practical Guide to Evil - erraticerrata
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitebroken/pseuds/Kitebroken
Summary: Dread Emperor Traitorous is the epitome of useless, backstabbing Praesi Emperors, who routinely get thrown out of Callow and murdered in short succession. He is also one of the only two Praesi villains to have ever killed an angel.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

> _“[Traitorous] managed to betray a villain called ‘the Betrayer’, Squire,” Ratface grinned. “You have to hand it to him: he might have had only one trick but he was great at it.”_

-Book 2 Chapter 1; Supply

_Inside the Tower of Ater, Year 488 of the Imperial Calendar_

Three hooded figures stood in a silent room, waiting to see if their treason would lead them to new heights or a shallow grave. No identifying marks could be found on any of them, all wearing the same formless black robes. The mahogany chairs and gold encrusted table had been hastily pushed to the sides of the room, as the three Praesi stood around the edges of a flashing ward drawn in blood. The only light in the room came from unearthly flashes that seemed to cast more shadows than light. Above them, the Chancellor was leading Dread Emperor Traitorous into a death trap that was impossible to escape from. With his death, and the ascendance of Chancellor Tasia to Dread Emperor, one of them would become the next Chancellor. And then this alliance would devolve into scavengers tearing at the ruin that Traitorous had made of Praes. A piercing scream, and a short whumph of sorcery cut through the air, as the trap was finally loosed, bathing the room above them in sorcerous fire, leaving behind only darkness and an uneasy silence. 

Before too long, the light from a lantern pierced through the gloom, as a short hooded person trudged down the stairs, dragging with them a burned and blackened corpse. The body was carelessly tossed onto the ground, as the newcomer snapped their fingers, causing hidden lights to come back on. 

“It’s done.” The former Chancellor announced, lightly kicking the corpse. Her fellow conspirators gathered around the body like vultures, eager to see for themselves the sorry end of Dread Emperor Traitorous. 

“What happened to the head.” One of the contenders for the Name of Chancellor flatly questioned. The body in question was shriveled and scorched, barely recognizable as a human at all, but a close look proved the head was indubitably missing. 

“Did you really think I would rely on Traitorous being killed by a single trap? I cut off his head and tossed it off the tower to prevent any tricks.” The woman disdainfully explained. 

“How do we know that you aren’t Traitorous?” Another accused, panic beginning to rise in their voice. “You could just be changing your voice! And that could be Tasia’s body!”

A snarl ripped its way out of the woman’s throat. A casual brush of her hand revealed the face of Tasia Keita, pale and drawn, but very much there. Her sunken golden eyes pierced through the fools that had dared to question her. Whatever had been Traitorous’s dying act had managed to sap her strength, but she was still up and walking. 

“Are you simpletons finished?” Her displeasure welled in the air, the Name she had ripped from her predecessor’s corpse lending a supernatural weight to her words. An unfocused wave of power rose in the room, as the Dread Emperor unconsciously exercised the power of her Name. 

The three lesser conspirators dropped to a knee, for those unable to read a room hadn’t survived Traitorous’s reign. 

“What should we call you, Your Majesty?” The sole member that hadn’t spoken yet asked. The Dread Emperor smiled, her grin seeming to stretch beyond her face.

“Kneel before Dread Emperor Treacherous.” She proclaimed, basking in the fulfillment of what was every Praesi’s desire. But after that brief moment, she moved onto more pressing matters. “I desire a Chancellor.” Tension filled the room, as the royal scrutinized her subordinates. Only one could hold that office. “Whoever leaves here alive will become it.” 

She walked towards a door on the other end of the room, her fellow conspirators staring in shock.

“Well?” The Dread Emperor motioned. “Get on with it.” She closed the door behind her, cutting off the sound of steel clashing with steel as behind her the traitors turned on each other. Ahead of her was the Ater skyline, bathed red from the dying of the sun. 

Dread Emperor Treacherous took in a deep breath, staring out over the balcony. Her body stood stock still. She leaned forward ever so slightly.

Her head slid forward, and tumbled off her neck.

The body caught it in its hands, writhing unnaturally underneath the robe, smoke leaking out from the openings. 

A man’s head popped up from the formless mass that had been masquerading as Tasia Keita. The black robes were tossed over the railing to reveal a muted red shirt accompanied by a pair of practical brown trousers. A tendril of smoke weaved its way to the man’s shoulders, forming into a black cloak, hood hanging carelessly down the back. The man clasped it around his neck, providing a defense against the chill of the night air.

Where there had once been a short woman who would never be mistaken for anything but aristocratic, now stood a slightly taller man who could have passed for any Praesi merchant attending to late business. 

Dread Emperor Traitorous smiled. There was nothing like a bit of treason to liven up a boring day. 

“Well,” he mused, holding up the head of his dear departed Chancellor. “You certainly can’t fault her ambition.” 

While he hadn’t had any clue of the planned attempt on his life until she tried to convince him to step into a ward that might as well have had “Warning: Trap” written on it for how poorly she was hiding her glee, it was a matter of moments to throw her into it and skim the surroundings for the poor fools that had given her the courage to go through with the assasination attempt. 

“Why did you think that I would fall for that?” Traitorous implored the severed head. “Do you really have such a low opinion of me?” 

“Well, I never was very bright.” The head responded in a pitch perfect imitation of former Chancellor Keita’s voice. There was a loud crash from the adjoining room as something slammed into the wall, which Traitorous ignored. He coughed slightly, before switching back to his normal tone of voice. 

“It’s perfectly alright, we all make mistakes. Next time, perhaps make a slightly more refined trap. Maybe try to pray that I’ll choke on my own spit and die. That may be more within your intellectual abilities.” He responded to himself, voice full of sincerity and a desire to help. In a way, one could say that the complete and utter ineptitude of his fellow Named in plotting had worked to her advantage. It was hard to sniff out a plot when it hardly deserved to even be called one. Muffled pleading came from the other room, before being swiftly cut off. 

Traitorous quickly glanced over himself to make sure he was in the proper form for the induction of his new Chancellor. His hands were bloodstained from playing the decapitated head of their predecessor. His merchants' clothes would inspire wariness at best, disdain from the more noble candidates, a far cry from the spikes and leather that were the usual attire of Dread Emperors. All together, he looked like a lucky amatueur, easy prey for a competent Chancellor. Perfect. He faced the door, hiding his inauguration gift behind his back.

The door opened, and Sabra Hassan limped in, clutching a wound on their side. Traitorous was surprised that a captain of the Ater guard would get caught up in such a lackadaisy plot, but kept his composure. The twice-gendered guard had evidently come unarmoured to this treasonous soiree, more fool they. 

The pride and anticipation on Hassan’s face melted away at the sight of their Dread Emperor. 

“Traitorous.” They cursed. He grinned in response, delight and glee filling him as another would-be victor realized they had failed before they had even started. 

“I desire a Chancellor,” Traitorous echoed his words from earlier in the same imperious tone that he had used when masquerading as Tasia. The color drained from Hassan’s face. Switching to a more beguiling tone, he continued. “And I find myself with a claimant standing in front of me.” He tossed the head hiding behind his back to the one who would take the Name of Chancellor. Numbly they caught it, only to realize what it was. Yet as realization flashed in their eyes, it was intertwined with greed and fear, a heady mix of emotions that whispered, “it is dangerous, but the rewards of ambition are oh so high”.

Already, Traitorous could feel the wisps of a story coalescing around the two of them. All-seeing eyes watched this moment, as a Dread Emperor raised his new Chancellor, coated in the blood of the previous. The tone set here would resonate through every future interaction. Sabra Hassan was already afraid of him. All that Traitorous needed to do was turn that fear into anger, to make a tool out of what was once a person.

“Do you know why I killed Tasia?” Traitorous questioned. The aspirant shook their head. Traitorous began to circle his captive audience. “It’s very simple. She _failed_.” He hissed. A brief pause, to let the fear set in, but not enough to give them time to think, before a return to a more jovial tone. “How could I ever murder someone for treachery? I’d have had to execute myself a thousand times!” Traitorous chuckled, while his audience remained silent, not taken in by the facade of affability. “So I’ll share with you a secret, Hassan.” Traitorous crossed behind them. “Because I like you.” He placed his hands on their shoulders. “And I want you to succeed.” He felt them barely keep from flinching at how close his hands were to their throat.

“Win.” Traitorous whispered in their ear. “The only thing that matters is victory. And if you cannot win, there is only one other alternative. Make everyone else lose.” This was no manipulation, no black-hearted lie, just a simple belief, a framework to view the world from. The would-be villain already knew this, but to reinforce this on the eve of becoming great, that would shape his Name, mold it in a certain direction.

And they would then mold others in the same way, force Praes into their manner of thinking. And the cycle would continue, and grow, and deepen. 

Until all that was left was avaricious victory-seekers, ruining the world.

What a legacy to leave behind.

A shiver went through their frame, as Traitorous released them. Now, for the finishing touches. 

“ **Kneel.** ” Traitorous Spoke, his Name reaching out to control the person in front of him, puppeteer and twist them according to his every whim. Invisible tendrils connected the two of them as the claimant fell to their knees. Yet their hands remained clenched around the head of their predecessor.

“I charge you with the creation of disharmony and dissent.” Traitorous began, branding the words into their Name. “You will plot, scheme, lie, cheat, and steal. You will take and take until there is nothing left to take.” The claimant writhed and jerked with each successive sentence, as if each was another lash delivered directly to their soul. “You will betray those who trust you, and cast aside all you hold dear.” Cracks resounded through the room as the severed head of Tasia Keita started to fracture under the growing strength of the claimant. “You will do all of this, and when there is no one left to turn on, you will turn on _me_ .” A particularly violent thrash slammed their head against the floor where it began to bleed. “Now rise, Chancellor Hassan, and **do my bidding**.” A gasp tore its way out of their throat, as the Dread Emperor finally released the hold of his Name on the Chancellor. The Named fell to the ground, greater than he had been before, irrevocably changed.

Traitorous watched the Chancellor collect themself. He had not been gentle in anointing them with their new Name. Now was the time for the open hand, to contrast with the clenched fist that had been his ascension. He knelt down next to the villain, and gently helped them to lean against the wall. They took deep breaths, as if breathing with new lungs. Traitorous tried to wipe off some of the debris from the mangled mess of blood, bone, and brain that was decorating Hassan’s hands, but found that the blood was stained deep. 

Traitorous waited quietly, cleaning off the worst of the viscera, as the Chancellor marshalled themselves. The newborn villain opened their eyes, and what Traitorous found there pleased him. Traitorous stood up.

“My dear Chancellor. I look forward to seeing great things from you.” The villain averted their eyes, face becoming a mask.

“What is your command, my Emperor?” They questioned, head down. Traitorous grinned, a mouth full of white knives. 

“Prepare the Empire for my absence.” He waited for them to ask the question, and they did not disappoint.

“And where will you be going?” His armies were broken, his subjects were on the brink of rebellion, and the Chancellor in front of him would leap on the slightest bit of leeway given to increase their own power. He was, without a doubt, due for a failure. Best to control the circumstances in which it happened then.

“To invade Callow, of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

_ Liesse, Year 501, of the Fairfax Reign _

The White Knight looked upon the might of the Enemy, and only felt sadness. These were troubled times, and although to be a hero was to be a shining light, the darkness always hungered. David of Surway knew dearly how easy it was to slip into evil, turn on fellow men for momentary gain, and leave the world a darker, crueler place. If he hadn’t committed the worst of evils himself, he wouldn’t have sworn himself to Contrition. To make repentance for his sins, no matter how dark or unforgivable, was the mantle they had given him. And if even he could have his sins absolved, there was no reason others could not. And so the White Knight turned away from the ramparts overlooking the armies of Praes, and only felt sorrow for those that couldn’t be saved. 

He turned to study the king of Callow beside him. The man was pale, fingers tightly gripping the masonry. John Fairfax the 4th was unprepared, both for his kingship and the upcoming battle in particular. Thrust into the duties of a king too soon, due to the traitorous Cunning General murdering the previous King, he couldn’t have expected to hold the fate of Callow in his hands. As the nominal heir, given the title in case tragedy struck while the Shining Prince was unavailable on one of his many adventures, he had been expected to stay safe and secure in Liesse, attending parties and ensuring a stable path of succession was clear to all. The old King had shown his foresight one last time, but while making sure that the Shining Prince would have his only true rival to the crown sworn to abdicate in his favor may stop Callowan blood being shed in the future, for now it only increased the likelihood of an entire city being put to the torch. Henry’s claim of the crown brought with it no Name, as whether it was true or not, he believed the Shining Prince to be the man destined to rule, and Names were not bestowed upon those willing to be lesser.

“So. Knight.” The new king relaxed his grip on the battlement. “What’s your read on the Enemy?” David looked back over the varied camps of the Praesi. While it was indeed a dreadful host, it was nowhere near the full might of that evil nation. Almost five thousand camped on the plains before Liesse, only half consisting of the enthralled orcs that usually consisted of a full eight parts in ten of Praesi armies. The few orcs that he had managed to free from their torment all had far too many horrific tales of the torture that was everyday life under the boot of the Praesi. Although they were a tool of evil, and had committed a great many sins, that did not make them irredeemable. And when freed and given the ability to commit atonement, every single one of them had chosen to repent blade in hand. Even though that was the way that he had chosen to commit his own penance, every single time he counseled a sinner, he hoped that they would choose to do good, instead of striking at evil. Yet in times like these, they often seemed to be the same.

“There’s both good and bad news, Your Majesty.”

“I hope the good outweighs the bad, Knight.” the king dryly responded, a bitter smile on his face. The White Knight politely ignored the mockery. 

“Their army consists of an unusually low amount of orcs. While this does mean that the Enemy won’t be able to attack the walls in as many places, it’s likely that there is instead a much larger sorcerer’s cabal than usually accompanies their armies.” John paled. Clearly he picked up on the implication of Praesi being able to call upon greater sorceries than they usually did. “However, that comes with the fact that so many sorcerers could only come from a coalition of multiple High Lords. And with the leadership of their Dread Emperor, the normal betrayals that would occur are likely to be even more devastating.”

“Traitorous.” The name sounded like a curse in the King’s mouth. “Is there a chance that they could kill each other off?” The man searched for hope in the White Knight’s face. 

“Unlikely.” David told the man. “While there will definitely be at least one major betrayal, their army will hold together enough to assault the walls. And it is almost certain that at least some of them will breach through and come for your life.”

“You’re certain? How?” David mulled over how to answer the king. That this… story, that was being written of their lives couldn’t end that easy, that a battle with the forces of evil was inevitable? No, he wouldn’t understand. That the only reason for the Praesi to sneak this far inland and would be to kill the king and plunge Callow into chaos? No, it didn’t hold up, and besides something about it didn’t sound… right, when he was trying to guess at Traitorous’s methods. Traitorous would never invade Callow for as simple a plan as that. Oh. That was what he had to tell him.

“Dread Emperor Traitorous is leading this army in person, and I suspect that the Warlock is by his side. The walls will not stop them if they decide to force their way inside.” The White Knight could feel, in the depth of his soul where the Hashmallim rested, that the man in greatest need of repentance in all of Calneria was in the army arrayed against them. King John looked back over the camps scattered over the plain, as if searching for where one of the great evils of the age was hidden away, a vaguely sick look on his face. He cursed quietly. David sympathized. It wasn’t easy to know that there was evil out there, and it was coming for you personally. Slowly, the new king pushed himself up from his position leaning over the walls, and walked back into the castle, motioning for the White Knight to follow.

“Okay. Hells. Okay. What do you need to stop them?” It was a good sign that John was willing to work with them. The late King had certainly chosen well.

“The Apprentice will need the help of the court wizards and some of their materials for the construction of more specialized wards.” It was only due to the fact that the Apprentice was here that David thought that they even had a chance at all. He had a plan that would stop the entire enemy army and prevent the villains from doing any more harm, but he would need time for it to come to completion. With the Apprentice’s magical prowess, she could hopefully hold off the enemy Named long enough for it to work.

The king motioned a passing servant and whispered something to him, before turning back to the White Knight. “Done. What else?”

“The Commander will need authority over the entire city guard. He has some plans to delay the enemy, and perhaps even keep them from entering the city.” The king cocked his head in surprise.

“He’s in the city? How come I never heard of this?” The White Knight simply spread his hands helplessly. In truth, David wasn’t aware himself until the man had ambushed him shortly after the appearance of the army, with a demand to know the plan for destroying the enemy. It was the Commander’s appearance, in fact, that convinced him that the Warlock accompanied the Dread Emperor. The Apprentice alone could hold off the Dread Emperor for a short amount of time, and both of them together would not be able to defeat him, but could at least drive him off. Yet that would mean that the White Knight and the Dread Emperor’s meeting would be cheated, and so that meant that the Dread Emperor had a Named for backup. His Chancellor would be of little use in a direct fight, his Black Knight had a strong grudge against the Shining Prince for the defeats dealt to him, and would never agree to avoid him, which left only the Warlock. 

“Alright. The Duke will be pissed, but he can stick it up his ass. Anything else?” He motioned another servant, before sending them running in the opposite direction. 

‘You’ll need to evacuate the streets that head directly from the city gate to the lake. I plan to bait the villains away from the center of town so that the collateral damage is limited.” The king looked pained at the words.

“You’re sure that they’ll break through the walls?” David gave him a solemn nod. “Hells. Alright. I’ll see what I can do. And you’ll be able to kill Traitorous?” David breathed out slowly, coming to a stop in the middle of the hall.

“I will attempt to show him the error of his ways. If he continues to choose to commit evil, then yes, I will kill him. But it will not be my first solution.” The king looked at him like he was mad. But whatever he saw in David of Surway’s face persuaded him to drop the subject.

They walked in silence for a while. 

“So, uh, Knight. It was lucky that you were here.” The White Knight ignored the implied question.

“Indeed.” He responded, and fell silent once more. Providence certainly worked in mysterious ways. Rumors had spread some time ago that the Dread Empire was preparing for an invasion to capitalize on the recent weakness of Callow, and scouting had confirmed those rumors. The king ordered what remained of the army to travel to Summerholm and hold the gates against the dark. And when evil reared its head, heroes always traveled to stop it. A band of five assembled themselves in Summerholm, strong and ready to fight all who threatened Callow. 

The Shining Prince, nephew of the late King, and well known throughout the land. His absence due to leading a band of the White Hand into Praes was what many whispered was the reason the Cunning General was able to gain so much power. Yet despite that, his gleaming sword had cut down many enemies of Callow, and when he returned from his expedition carrying the head of one of the dreaded High Lords and saw what had become of Callow, he swore to restore it. 

The White Knight and his Squire, wanderers both, travelling from one town to the next, righting wrongs and providing succor to those in need. Despite their humble origins, both were powerful Named. When the Cunning General had risen, swearing to invade Procer and repay them for their arrogance, the two heroes had joined the Good King in his ultimately fatal attempt to put down the villain. While the King and the Knight had fended off the General, the Squire had led a daring detachment of cavalry directly into the back of enemy lines, breaking their forces. And now tempered by war, they faced the true Enemy.

The Wizard of the West and the Apprentice, lesser known, but no less powerful for it. They had both claimed their Names only recently, the Wizard being a talented court mage who had quietly slipped into the role after its absence had been felt for too long, while the Apprentice was found staggering out of the Waning Woods, close-mouthed and wearing fae-made clothes. Their appearance was sorely needed by Callow, for if it was to repel the Enemy’s foul sorceries, powerful magicians of their own were needed.

And so the heroes had gathered, and armies were marshalled. In the middle of preparations, a courier came to the gates of Summerholm, bearing a message from the Dread Emperor. Immediately, the White Knight knew the situation had just become worse. The woman carried a red chest, and rode in on a single dusty horse, carrying a white flag. David brought the Wizard and the Prince with him as they rode out to meet her. Overly cautious, especially for a meeting for what seemed to be a mere courier, but one could never be too careful when Dread Emperor Traitorous was involved. As they got within a few yards of the woman, she dismounted, and set the reins of the horse and the chest on the ground. She expressed the apologies of her master for being unable to present these gifts in person, and started walking back the way she came. The White Knight stopped the Prince from riding her down and taking her in for questioning. She had rode in under a white flag, and she would walk away unmolested. As the woman faded into the distance, he motioned the Wizard of the West to check the objects for harmful spells. It was time to see what the Dread Emperor wanted. 

After the Wizard has cleared the box and horse of any untoward magical effects, the men gathered to see what the Enemy had sent them. The horse had a note attached to it, penned in what seemed to be the Emperor’s own hand. It began rather simply:

_ My Dear White Knight, _

_ I hope these gifts find you in good health and cheer. I apologize for being unable to present these gifts in person, but I know that you will receive them in the same spirit that I sent them. I hope that you will find this horse a worthwhile replacement for the one that I borrowed after that little mix-up with the General. I named her after that Squire of yours, and I hope you’ll take good care of her. I did have to leave rather suddenly at the end of that soirée, and let me express my deepest gratitude for your generous loan. As for my other gift, I recently learned that our mutual acquaintance, the Shining Prince, had recently started a new hobby. I merely wished to add to his collection, and hope that he won’t begrudge me the over-familiarity.  _

_ But sadly, I must come to the dreadful point of this letter. As you know, I am ever a friend to you and your cause, championing for peace between Praes and Callow, and an end to the hostilities. I have been relentlessly pushing for a mending between our countries, yet it is one of those obstacles that prevent our countries from joining together as one that I write to you today about. A man named Olufemi has been agitating the High Lords, calling for war and plunder. Countless times I have tried to convince him peacefully to end these evil acts but he refuses to listen to reason. And now he has blackmailed me into supporting his nefarious schemes. Although it greatly pains me to do so, I must ask for your help in stopping his evil plans from reaching fruition.  _

_ You know how dedicated I am to honesty and trustworthiness, but in this situation it seems I have no other choice. I will secretly work from the inside to delay his strategies, and hope that you can stop his diabolical plots. Luckily, I have managed to secure a copy of the invasion plans, which are as follows: in one month’s time, to attack Liesse and Summerholm at the same time so as to overwhelm you in two places at once. The Warlock and the Black Knight will be participating in this invasion as well, so you must prepare for the worst.  _

_ I know that this may seem like terrible news, but do not give up hope! As long as we trust in our life-long bonds of trust and friendship, we can overcome any obstacle!  _

_ Your everlasting ally, _

_ Dread Emperor Traitorous.  _

David looked to the Prince. He looked sickened. 

“The box had the heads of the three daughters of High Lady Sahelian.” The noble informed him. David looked at the offering once more. It was not a large chest. He breathed out a heavy sigh, before turning his back on the retreating Praesi. They would have to decide what to do with this information. 

When the five of them had gathered inside Summerholm, tempers were already flaring. Traitorous’s words weren’t worth the ink they’d been written in, but to completely disregard the letter was begging for providence to fail them. The only problem was that the so-called plan of invasion was ridiculous. 

The only feasible way to march armies from Praes to invade Callow by land involved marching through the Fields of Streges, and attacking Summerholm, which many an army had tried to take, and many had failed. So the attack on Summerholm that Traitorous mentioned was entirely expected. But to reach Liesse by land required the taking of Summerholm first, which made simultaneous strikes on them impossible. Even attempting to sail down the Wasaliti was infeasible, due to the Order of the White Hand’s presence on the Blessed Isles keeping the Praesi from sailing ships up and down the river. And even if the Praesi somehow managed to sneak past the paladins, the easiest city for them to attack would be Dormer. To attack Liesse without Dormer raising the alarm, they’d have to load the army on boats they didn’t have, sneak past the paladins who kept a close eye out for Praesi ships, disembark in the middle of nowhere, and march for weeks in the wilderness to reach the capital. It was an illogical, foolish, and downright stupid plan. But that never stopped the Praesi.

And so came the unending task that came with diplomacy from the Praesi. Sorting truth from lies, bluffs from hidden trumps, and to devise a plan that would keep the Enemy from triumph. 

There were three plans put forward in the meeting, with the Apprentice exercising her customary silence. 

The Squire called to take Traitorous at his word, splitting both the army and the heroes between Liesse and Summerholm. She argued that the dangers of splitting their forces were far less than the horrors of letting the Praesi take a city, much less the capital. 

The Prince scoffed at the idea of trusting anything the Praesi said. He argued to keep the army and the band stationed in Summerholm, trusting in his comrades in the White Hand to protect the Wasaliti.

The Wizard, perhaps slightly too eager to return to his home city, put forward the plan to keep the army in Summerholm, and have the heroes protect Liesse. He raised the notion that Traitorous meant he would bring his band of villains to attack Liesse while his army would attack Summerholm, when he said the attack would be simultaneous. 

David mulled over their options as they argued among themselves. If he didn’t correctly guess what Traitorous would do, then Callow, weakened by its civil war, could possibly fall to the villainy of the East. He raised a hand, and slowly, the heroes stopped arguing and turned to him. 

Despite the fact that the Shining Prince was his lawful liege, he knew that the noble would follow his decision. While the Prince had the authority to overrule whatever decision they came to, David had the most experience to make that decision. He'd been doing this for almost thirty years now, and his age was catching up to him. It was almost time for his Squire to become a Knight. But first, they had to get through this final crisis. 

David knew that Traitorous was no fool. He was cruel, dangerous, and all too willing to commit atrocities, but he wasn’t a Dread Emperor who had let his power steal his sense yet. To attack Liesse, he would only be able to bring a small army, if one at all. And while villains could lie, in the case his words were the truth, the narrative backlash of the heroes ignoring his warning would guarantee Liesse to fall. In this case, the decision was simple. 

The army would stay to protect Summerholm, as it was certainly going to come under attack. The band, however, would be split, as Praesi armies were almost always accompanied by Named or mage cabals that heroes would be needed to defeat. There was some minor quibbling, but eventually the Apprentice and himself agreed to travel. 

There was only one last detail to attend to.

There was a small church in Summerholm that was headed by a young woman that David was acquainted with. He’d been impressed with her discretion, so when he approached her with payment for a small plot in the nearby cemetery, she made no comments and simply told him where the grave was. 

He took the small chest with him as he crossed the low wood fence that separated the dead from the living. Carefully and gently, he removed the head of each of the children, wiping it clean of viscera, and closing their eyes. He buried these nobles of Praes in an unmarked grave in Callow, and try as he might, he couldn’t muster up that satisfaction of debts paid twice. 

It was just a sin, and the White Knight had sworn himself to lead sinners to repent.

And so he had departed from Summerholm and the army there, taking only the Apprentice with him, for her time with the Fae had given him many secrets, one of which had been revealed to be a pair of mirrors capable of communication over any distance. With one given to the Wizard of the West, he could depart without worrying that disaster would follow in his absence. And yet disaster seemed to have followed him to the gates of Liesse.

The king’s wavering voice broke the White Knight out of his thoughts. “Knight. How… how bad is this going to get? Am I going to be remembered as the king that ruled for a day and then died along with the rest of Liesse?” The helplessness that John felt was written into every part of his face. He was practically begging for reassurance, for the White Knight to promise to live up to his story and defeat the Dread Emperor. 

“It would take me centuries to commit repentance for failing Callow in its hour of need.” He flashed a quick confident smile at the king. “I suppose I’ll just have to win.” 

John let out a bark of laughter, looking surprised at himself. “I suppose so!” He calmed himself, as they approached the doors to the throne room. He paused before them, and turned to David.

“Protect Liesse, White Knight.” The Knight bowed to the king of Callow, before striding off to fulfil the order. As the king entered the room and began to wrangle the nobles into following orders, David hurried to collect the Apprentice. It was time for the final preparations. He would  **protect** Liesse with his dying breath if needed. But if his plan to summon one of the Hashmallim worked, so much death could be avoided.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Outside the gates of Summerholm, Year 488 of the Imperial Calendar _

Everything was going according to plan, and soon Olufemi Temitope, heir to the High Lord of  Thalassina, would make all his enemies tremble before him. Idly swishing the wine in his glass, he gazed upon the gigantic walls before him and reflected on what had preceded his meteoric rise. 

Once a mere branch member of the Temitope family, destined to rule over dirt and peasants in some dusty corner, the seizing of the throne by Dread Emperor Traitorous had changed everything. He had ushered in a new age of betrayal, fitting for the ruling name he had chosen, and while dangerous, it allowed for those truly worthy to ascend to new heights. Olufemi had benefited greatly from the death and destruction Traitorous left in his wake, taking power from the dead, and turning on those who still stood in his way, nothing stopping him from climbing ever higher. His ascendance had surprised all of his detractors, and soon the only ones left were those who flattered him, hoping for a taste of his newfound power. It was his fate to reach the height of Praesi ambition, become Dread Emperor, and rule the world. All that was left was to properly convey his thanks to the Dread Emperor for lighting the match. And what better way for him to show his appreciation to Traitorous for his help than to betray him in the same way that he had fooled so many others? 

The walls of Summerholm lay before him with foolish Callowans hiding behind them, terrified of his might. They were right to be terrified, for soon they would face the fullness of Praesi power. Dread Emperor Traitorous himself had chosen to lead a detachment of the army to sneak across the Hwaerte River and assault Summerholm from the rear, while Olufemi would attack across the bridge to the front gates. Truly, Traitorous was attempting to flatter him, giving him the most glorious position. It only proved how important he had become, that even the Dread Emperor had to try and buy his favor. No. Not the Dread Emperor. The  _ current  _ Dread Emperor. Soon the title would be his. And victory over the Callowans was just the way to claim the name. And he would not wait. The plan called for Traitorous to attack first, with Olufemi leading his legion to overwhelm the fools when they panicked over Traitorous’s sudden appearance. But if he attacked now, and took the walls before Traitorous even had a chance to arrive, then the soon to be late Dread Emperor would have nowhere to go. Trapped on all sides by enemies, the man would fall, and a new Dread Emperor would rise, and the world would fall at his feet. Yes, his plan was perfect.

Olufemi slowly drained the remaining wine in his glass, savoring the taste of it. A singularly exquisite taste, for an exceptional individual. Rising from his chair, he turned to the servant standing behind him. 

“You. Rouse the commanders. The attack will begin soon.” The servant murmed his obedience, and soon his cabal surrounded him. They worried over useless trivia such as Traitorous’s missing of the agreed upon time to strike, and the strength of the Callowan armies. It was no matter. With the Dread Emperor having sent word that he had slaughtered every paladin who served in the White Hand, no one could stand in his way. They didn’t understand that fate itself had commanded that he would win. 

Slowly, the cabals of mages prepared their rituals and the savage orcs were woken from their slumber. His servants girded him in his armor, and attended to his appearance. It wouldn’t do for his new subjects to see him at any less than his best. And soon, all the preparations were complete. Olufemi strode to the front of the army. 

“Hear me and obey!” Everyone looked at him with envy, wishing they could be the man that led such a mighty host. “Before us, the Callowans tremble! Unleash our dread sorceries! Let all who oppose me fall! Now go!” There was a moment of silence, while his followers attempted to comprehend his magnificent speech, before there was a startled flurry of activity as they carried out his order. As his mages approached the walls, Olufemi could almost taste his victory. The Callowans were so terrified of his wrath that they hadn’t even manned the walls, preferring to hide in their doomed city. Wait. No, there in the distance was a single man, standing atop the parapet. Brave, but idiotic. The power of Praesi magic would bring it crumbling down. His mages began the ritual pooling of power, a small spark of darkness appearing in the sky, swiftly growing larger. As the chanting of his sorcerers rose to a peak, the man didn’t move. Tendrils of darkness lashed out at the walls, and the man lifted his hands. Simple patterns on the wall, inscribed thousands of times, weathered by wind, rain, and war, flashed to life. A tentacle struck the wall, attempting to batter it down. The man atop the walls made a quick motion, and the strand of darkness dissolved into mist from the flash of Light the wall gave off. The scene repeated all across the field, with one man atop the wall defending against an entire army by himself. The fury of Praesi madness clashed with the walls, and was found wanting.

“What is going on?” Olufemi whispered. He shook his head. “You, servant! Tell those fools that if they don’t stop acting like magicless dogs, I will have them put down!” He ordered, grabbing the man next to him. The man stared at him for a long second, before moving to do as he asked. There was a short pause as tendrils withdrew from the walls, becoming a ball above the cabal of mages once more. A shiver went through the mass, before it shifted to form a roaring dragon’s head. It charged at the wall once more, toxins dripping from its maw. The heir to Thalassina idly noticed some of the mages passing out, but focused on the sorcery as it raced towards the walls. He knew there was no way that the Draconic Welcome could ever be stopped. As the dragon’s head wrestled with the walls, toxin continually dripped from its mouth, degrading the engraved wards. The light shrouding the walls started to flicker and dim, and Olufemi felt the victory before him. 

**Repay.** The word echoed across the battlefield. Olufemi felt his eyes lock to the man on top of the walls. In front of him, a true dragon was forming. First came the head, eyes full of malice. A long sinuous neck connected to a massive body, scales glinting with reflected light. Four legs and a tail, all barbed and clawed, ready to inflict destruction on all that dared to challenge it. Finally, two monstrous wings, made of bright Light, came into existence, and it let out a thundering roar. Next to this beast, the Praesi sorcery looked like a child’s imitation. The man from the walls leapt onto the back of this manifestation of Callowan vengeance and directed it towards the mages. The mages tried to stop it with their Draconic Welcome, only to have it burst into shards of darkness as the Wizard of the West plowed straight through it riding his summoned beast. Some mages dropped dead from the forceful breaking of their shared spell, and those who weren’t stunned from the backlash attempted to flee. Olufemi wondered how it had gone wrong so quickly, before a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He whirled around to find a servant with a knife in his hand. 

“Traitor!” He roared. He stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and falling to the ground. The servant approached, an insolent smirk on his face.

“This is only what you deserve, failure. The lord of Nok sends his rega-” There was a curious pause in his speech, accompanied by a halt to his movements. Slowly, he fell over to reveal the commander of the orcs standing behind him, still holding a sword red with the blood of the servant. 

“Why didn’t you stop the servant earlier, you fool!” Olufemi was furious, if it got out that he had almost been killed by someone who wasn’t even of a ruling line, he would be the laughingstock of the court. An ugly smile spread across his savior’s face.

“Then I wouldn’t get the pleasure of seeing you shit your pants at the thought of you finally getting what you deserved.” Olufemi gaped in shock. This- this lackey had the nerve? While he was trying to find the words that would remind this imbecile of his rightful place below him, the commander suddenly turned and met another man in a clash of steel. 

“Both of your heads will adorn the gates of Kahtan, after the birds pick the eyes out of your skull!” The newest claimant to his life spat in the commander's face, looking for an opening. The heir to Thalassina saw his chance. While the two were distracted, Olufemi crawled along the ground, hiding himself in the mud and grass, before running for his life. 

Wherever he looked, Olufemi could only see his army falling apart. The white dragon had vanished, but the Wizard of the West strode among the mages, and slaughtered all that were in his path. The orcs were turning upon themselves and their betters, their small minds unable to comprehend the madness that was occuring. And the officers were turning on each other, one and all. Squads were formed, only for soldiers to slaughter their captains and proclaim their leadership. A thousand different claims were pursued through that sacred spilling of blood. And in the distance, the gates of Summerholm opened. 

A young woman, clad in simple leather armor, led a contingent of Callowans who advanced with vengeance resounding in their footsteps. Several thousand marched towards the chaotic Praesi camp, and Olufemi knew that his army was finished. Even if he managed to corral the faithless lackies who had turned on him, too much of their strength had been wasted on themselves. As he prepared to retreat and gather another, stronger, army, Olufemi cursed the Callowans in his heart. He swore to the Gods Below that they would get what they deserved for daring to humiliate him like this. Appropriating the best looking horse that he could find nearby, he rode back to the bridge that they had marched in on, already plotting how he would make the simpletons pay for foiling his plan. Hanging was too good for them, yes. Crucifixion, for every soldier that had dared to rebel, was a good start. And then-

The heir to Thalassina was startled out of his thoughts when he noticed a Callowan ahead of him on the bridge. He sneered. Finally someone he could take his anger out on. 

“Kneel, and proclaim your allegiance to  Olufemi Temitope, heir to the High Lord of  Thalassina, and I may decide to spare your life!” He called out as he rode towards the lone horseman. The man made no indication that he heard. 

“Are you simple? Kneel before your betters, or die like a dog!” Olufemi pulled out his sword from the sheath at his side, struggling for a moment with the unpracticed motion. Despite the indignity of a man of his personage not having any attendants, he would not let this halfwit enjoy the honor of serving him. Anyone who did not acknowledge his excellence was not worthy of serving underneath him. “You’ve made your choice” he snarled. Olufemi swung his sword, feeling no resistance as his blade cut off the man’s head. 

A moment later the pain hit him, and he fell off of his horse. Blindly grasping at his arm, he howled into the midnight sky. The pain was the worst thing he’d ever felt. He tried to get up but fell. Moaning, he dragged himself away from the warrior. There was something wrong with his hand. He cradled it to his chest. It-it was gone. Where a clean, manicured hand with shining jewels decorating it was supposed to be, there was only the dull spurting of blood. How could this be? He fell silent, struck dumb by the sudden turns of fortune he had gone through. The man looming over him started speaking. 

“I still think that Squire cheated with the straws somehow.” A second man covered in plate inscribed with holy sigils had joined him. When?

“Somebody had to make sure none of them escaped. And, well, you were the one to bring up betting on it. You should know better than that by now, Prince.”

The first man let out a bark of laughter. “What has White been teaching his Squire? You’d think after a couple years traveling with that old cleric she’d be less of a trickster.” He looked out over the bridge. “I suppose it’s about time to clean up now.”

Another armored warrior rode up. Followed by another. A steady trickle of men and women filled the bridge until there were several hundred of them, ready to exterminate the last of the Praesi. It wasn’t until he caught sight of a simple banner blowing in the wind, a simple white handprint on a blue background. The symbol of the paladins of the White Hand. But, Traitorous had sworn that they were wiped out! How had he been lied to? A shout rose up from the paladins, as they trampled over Olufemi’s body, forward into the fleeing Praesi survivors. The last thing that  Olufemi Temitope, heir to the High Lord of  Thalassina, heard was the sound of pounding hoofbeats, as the Shining Prince led his band of paladins to cut down all who threatened Callow.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Outside the gates of Liesse, Year 488 of the Imperial Calendar _

One thing that many people didn’t appreciate in properly conducted plotting, Traitorous mused, was the sheer amount of writing involved. When one was confounding, lying to, or otherwise tricking hundreds of people at once, some from multiple different fronts, it generated disturbing amounts of paperwork. Just to keep himself from going insane, or at least more insane than was appropriate for a Dread Emperor, he’d started trying to see the most blatantly that he could hint that he was actually the Dread Emperor, without whoever he was writing to catching on. It became a game that he played, with the prize for whatever moron managed to realize that he was being duped, being the dumbest of their rivals suddenly finding the opportunity to stab them in the back. 

While having the nobles constantly caught up in a series of mercurial alliances and betrayals that kept them from working to bring him down did was rather fun, it required a startling amount of work to keep the increasingly unstable remainders of the aristocracy from ever producing a single viable candidate for his throne. It was really only possible to keep them constantly fighting one another as long as they were all complete idiots. Which, to be fair, had been his first major objective to complete when he had started this whole Dread Emperor business. 

The War of Thirteen Tyrants and One was a rather messy business. After it was over, during the months following the deaths of every person who had any claim to rule Praes, there was a mad scramble as what seemed to be every living soul in Praes, and many of the dead ones, attempting to capitalize on the chaos. 

These new rulers were not crowned for their intelligence, or their charm. They ruled by a scavenger’s right of last one standing. Aware of how flimsy their standing was, they murdered and made desperate deals in the dark, ever hungry, and ever fearing. And they were right to be afraid. Entire noble lines had fallen since the start of the civil war. The Shining Prince had broken down the gates of Wolof, decapitated High Lady Sahelian, and walked away, killing all that tried to stop him. Decades worth of devil contracts, hidden artifacts, and secret treasuries had been fruitlessly used up in thousands of attempts by a thousand different claimants, all consumed by that greatest of Praesi sins, unending ambition. 

And yet the Great Game continued, murders in the dead of night and the quicksilver shift of alliances that brought Praes teetering ever closer to the edge of destruction. Those few remaining with intelligence questioned how Praes had been brought to this. Some blamed Traitorous, but how could one man have managed to ferret out so many secrets, ignite so many grievances? His spy network was rumored to be of legendary proportions. Now, while Traitorous was the most humble of Dread Emperors, he did admit to some skill in reading his enemies and sniffing out those with more ambition than sense. Of course, it always helped to be able to  **skim** the darker places in Creation to find those better hidden secrets. With an aspect to help, his enemies went from being untouchable, to all too vulnerable. And now all that was left were the failures and the fools. These foolish children who sought to rule only added kindling to the flames, with Olufemi Temitope being the greatest example of their complete inability to do anything other than stab themselves in the foot. 

Just the thought of him brought a smile to Traitorous’s face. The man was as sharp as a rusty spoon, and about as dangerous, mainly in that they both likely held infectious diseases. When Traitorous had first met the buffon, he knew that he might never get another opportunity like it, and had immediately named him Marshal of the Legions of Terror. Putting an incompetent fool in charge of the remaining dregs of the Praesi military was a joke that nobody alive would understand, and at the same time, an offering. Luckily enough, letting an inbred imbecile crash and burn along with most of his army suited his plans perfectly. 

Near the entirety of the Praesi army had been killed over the course of his reign, so when he had set out on this mission, he’d been forced to beg, threaten, and coaxe the High Lords to part with their personal household troops. In the end he’d managed to scrape up twelve thousand, and he planned to shrink that number down to zero by the end of this invasion. Temitope certainly had his side well in hand. Traitorous was fairly certain that there was not a single person in the entire army that wasn’t secretly selling out the braindead moron. Hells, he’d bet that some of the goats were double agents as well. 

Of course, no one in that army was aware of his plans. And he did have fiendish plans, covering every contingency, no matter what Hoseyn had accused! He couldn’t call himself a true villain if he didn’t have an overly complicated multi-step plan that would fail if a single of the steps was slightly off, that all led to an insane goal that would shake the world. It's just, well, if he were to write out his plans for each step, most of them would solely consist of one word. Improvise. But plans they were, and it was best to have single step plans, because as everyone knew, the first part of a villain’s plan always worked. 

Making his way to Liesse had certainly worked out well so far. He’d recently caught wind of this Ashuran villain, the Marauder, as knowing of nearby villains who could take defeats for him was always useful. What truly caught his attention was his nickname, “The Betrayer”, from some fracas with the man’s higher ranked sister. As the men had basically the same assumed name, that meant that they were practically brothers, and no one could say that Traitorous was anything but filial. The fact that they both had murdered their other siblings only gave them more to bond over!

A plan had started to brew in his mind, and through a series of letters, Traitorous had eventually managed to strike a deal with the man. Access to the docks of Thalassina and a frankly ridiculous amount of gold, in return for the villain’s services in ferrying an army down the Wasaliti to attack Liesse. With the third paid upon his arrival, the man would be rich enough to make Mercantis Princes jealous. The third paid upon disembarkment would let the man build his own fleet of ships, and the last third would be more than any one person could ever spend. Traitorous only had the money to pay the first installment, but what the Ashuran didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Once he’d met the man in person, Traitorous was distinctly unimpressed. The villain was all too stodgy, and focused solely on receiving the gold he’d been promised. Absolutely no appreciation for jokes, not even a good pun. His plotting was especially pathetic. He barely made an effort to hide the fact that he would just take the first two payments, and leave his army stranded in Callow. 

It saddened him to do so, but once his army had been safely embarked on Callowan soil, he ordered the Warlock to destroy the rudders of the ships and strand them. Although he always did his best to keep his trustworthy image pristine, in this case the man was simply too much of a bore. Besides, it was always good to have a second escape route, and he’d made deals with people he’d betrayed in worse ways. And so the first step on the way to that glorious victory was accomplished. 

His ultimate goal, the promised land that had to be worth all the suffering and chaos he had caused, oh it was mad. No other Dread Emperor in history had ever accomplished it. When he completed it, his name would go down in history. And so his long and winding path had led him here, camped in front of Liesse, and deciding how exactly he wanted to cause his army to self-destruct. 

Right as he was musing on how exactly to strike the match that would make this tinderbox of an army go up in flames, waves of power flooded out from the capital of Callow. The air pulsed and writhed, trying to tear the air from his lungs. His Name, that bloody dagger perfectly fitted to his hand, materialized without him even calling for it. Even without a small **skim** , Traitorous knew what this was. The old White Knight was here to face him, and had pulled out all the stops. Soon, an Angel of Contrition would descend upon the world, channeled through a mortal hero, and confront all living beings nearby with the consequences of their sins. Traitorous couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed even as cries sounded out in the distance, as untrusting mages turned on one another, and brother fought brother. He laughed as the stink of sorcery mixed with the potent stench of blood. He laughed as his army fell apart around him, and a new plan started to coalesce in his mind. 

Traitorous had only met the White Knight once before. The hero had been content to stay in Callow and make the lives of the peasants better, compared to his more adventurous liege who Traitorous had met almost a dozen times now. The Shining Prince was a clever tactician, but never enough to corner the Emperor, and so they had danced through a dozen raids and counterraids, watering the Fields of Strege with blood again and again. But despite that, the Shining Prince and the Black Knight were truer rivals, two martial Names competing to see the victor, and David of Surway was Traitorous’s true counterpart. For what was the better antithesis to a man that believed in the best of everyone, than one who proved that some people simply couldn’t be trusted?

He only stopped his reminiscence when one particularly angry servant rushed into his tent with a knife drawn. Oh, poor Aaliyah, she had always had more bravery than sense. It was that same flaw that had led to her trying to bargain her body for her brother’s life. While admittedly, it was well within the power of a Dread Emperor to free a single ritual sacrifice, to do so would only cause more people to assume he could be seduced. When he had done nothing after sleeping with her, she’d even burst into his room while he was sleeping, calling him an oathbreaker, and trying to kill him, so he’d had to transfer her to a different section of the Tower for a while. A well-known and vocal enemy was always a High Lord’s first choice in who to plot with. It was always useful to know who exactly his enemies would be bribing to sneak into the Tower. He’d thought that she would be too afraid to attempt to get her revenge, but evidently he was wrong. Calmly, he pivoted and let her clumsy dagger strike past him, before slashing her throat open. Her blood mixed with the old stains that appeared on the dagger his Name formed as every time he materialized it.

Letting her dying body hit the ground, Traitorous strode out of his tent, and breathed in the chaos. High strung Praesi, stranded in a foreign land, mixed with some unknown ritual powerful enough to warp the world that no one had any idea of what it accomplished? Oh, they all were worried that their rivals had somehow gotten a leg up on them, and the best time to strike was now, before anyone else could capitalize. And now the camp was in flames. His goal was accomplished. Temitope would have led his army into the maws of a wolf, and his own was self-destructing with every passing second. He could flee back to Praes now and start work on the final phase of his plan. All it would take was passing up on what would likely be his only chance to take on an angel.

Any villain stupid enough to fight an angel tended to a have short and brutal revelation of their insignificance in the face of the Heavens, before being cleansed from Creation. If Traitorous had been facing any other Choir, he only would have died more foolish than most. But the Hashmallim were an unusual type of Choir. When he’d had his first run in with the White Knight he’d researched Contrition, and while there were quite a few racy novels involving those sworn to them, whips, and chains, records of battles between villains and those heroes sworn to Contrition were few and far between. He’d been flummoxed, until he realized that he was looking at it from the wrong direction. Instead he searched for tales where villains had turned their coat, and decided to try and lighten their blackened souls. 

The name of Contrition started popping up wherever he looked. A young Wayward Knight sworn to the Choir had convinced a Brutal Wizard to turn against the Praesi. The Wizard had then managed to incinerate an entire army, a feat of magic far beyond what he’d demonstrated in the past. The Wizard died in the attempt. A decade before that, a romance between a Shining Princess and the Squire at the time, had convinced the  Soninke to swear herself to the Choir. She died a few months later, but not without bringing the Black Knight, and two entire Legions to the grave with her. Dread Emperor Dastardly, the second of his name, had been desecrating a church, when an ill-timed boast that he feared no angel had caused one to come and visit. Taking the Name the Penitent, and swearing to repent, he returned to Praes and attempted to convert his compatriots, managing to banish several demons during his efforts. He had been assassinated by his Chancellor within a month of his return. Traitorous saw the pattern. The Hasmallim killed villains as often as other Choirs, if only with a delay between their meeting and the villain’s deaths. 

But that delay was telling. In that time the villains accomplished their greatest feats, and always for the side of Good. A villain that didn’t have the invisible chains of providence pulling them down, but instead letting them fly higher? It was no wonder that they could accomplish amazing deeds. But this ability came at a price. For villains, it was their death sentence, for there was no power without sacrifice, and one’s own life was the most potent of sacrifices. For the Choir, what they gained in the ability to manipulate mortals, they lost in their capacity to hammer down their opponents with sheer power. But what did it matter to them, if their opponents could break the heavens, when they could change their opponents to allies? In that morass of treachery and redemption was a story that Traitorous could ride to fight against the Hashmallim.

This was perhaps the only chance that Traitorous had of clashing with angels and surviving. He would answer that question that no one had asked. What would happen if the Choir of Contrition failed to redeem a villain? But most importantly, there was a chance to do something that no one else had done before. To make his mark on history. To leave his own legacy behind.

Traitorous strode off to find his fellow Named. There was much work to be done if they were to break down the walls of Liesse to attack the angel being summoned within.


	5. Chapter 5

The moans of the recently betrayed were like music to Traitorous’s ears. As he carefully threaded through the fallen bodies and outbreaks of combat, he kept his eyes on his destination. The tent which had been almost identical to ones surrounding it when the camp had first been set up, now was quite clearly different. For one, it wasn’t on fire. The pile of dead bodies that sprawled in front of it was another difference. Traitorous paused for a moment to brush a hand through his hair. The Black Knight clearly did not want to be disturbed. Normally when disposing of fools that dared to attack him, he made sure to cut off their heads and impale them on his signature shadow spears, to stop others from wasting his time. These bodies had just been left where they fell, and from the looks of the wounds, it seemed as if he’d just swung a sword once and used his Name to extend the slash to cut through the band that was trying to sneak up on him. Traitorous took a moment to pick up a severed hand and shook it to get some of the blood off, placing it in one of the many pockets he’d had sown into his cloak. He’d always been of the opinion that a proper villainous pun needed props to inspire the correct mix of horror and hilarity. 

Honestly, the previous Black Knight had been a bit of a fuck up. The vampire had attempted to turn her Squire into her thrall, while at the same time enacting dangerous experiments on him and beating him whenever the mood took her. Those experiments had then of course ironically failed, leaving her with a dying Squire who had nothing left to live for but murdering his torturer. Traitorous hadn’t even needed to arrange for a heroic accident, the boy beating her to death with his bare hands, before claiming the Name of Black Knight. The Emperor hadn’t expected the new Black Knight to survive, the boy being more corpse than man, but the new-born monster had clung to life through sheer anger at the world, leaving Traitorous with an unstoppable subordinate with a grudge against authority figures, who had been rewarded with ultimate power the last time they had murdered their master. The only levers he had on the beast was the promise of revenge on the world, and the fact that the experiments had warped him so that direct sunlight would lead to his agonizing death.

Pulling open the flap to the tent, he entered the dark interior. Bes of Ater, the Black Knight, was nowhere to be seen in the shroud of shadows. He’d agreed to come on this expedition when Traitorous had sworn that he had secret intelligence that a weakness of the Shining Prince was hidden in Liesse. Which, while true in a metaphorical sense, in that murdering Callowan citizens would hurt the Prince’s “honor”, there wasn’t exactly a secret weapon that would kill him as Traitorous had led the Knight to believe. 

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it Black? Fancy exploring it with me?” Traitorous addressed the blackness that shrouded the entirety of the tent. Whatever rituals the previous Black Knight had used on his Squire to turn him into a hulking monstrosity that feared the light of day didn’t seem to be fading in potency anytime soon. As much as Traitorous admired the commitment to aesthetic, lairs of complete darkness were so last century. 

Two piercing red eyes flashed in the gloom, and a guttural growl shook the tent. 

“Now now, no need to get angry.” Traitorous placated the beast. “Only a suggestion.”

A rasping voice ripped its way out of the darkness, each word seemingly a struggle. “Earlier. That. You?”

A smile crossed Traitorous’s face. “While I myself didn’t cause that lovely pulse of angelic intent, I do believe that I know who did. My old friend the White Knight.” He paused for a moment to see if the Black Knight would make a reaction. While it was possible for him to Skim a person to learn more about them and how to better manipulate them, it was a more risky endeavor to attempt on Named. They tended to have the senses that could sniff out the use of an aspect, and once an aspect was revealed to the larger world, it lost some of its narrative bite. In addition to that, the reveal of the aspect would likely mean that his lies about a widespread spy network would be revealed as well. That just meant that he had to rely on the skills he had gained from almost a decade of reigning as Dread Emperor. 

Although there was no physical reaction that Traitorous picked up on, he felt the shift in attention. He figured that the Knight wouldn’t be able to resist a possible grudge match with his counterpart. 

“Who. Else.” Traitorous adopted a thinking expression, exaggeratingly tapping a finger on the side of his mouth. 

“Who else will we be facing? That is indeed an excellent question, my dear fellow.” Traitorous knew of at least seven heroes currently active in Callow, discounting any foreigners that had slipped in to muck about. Two of them, the Commander and the Sage of the West, were unconnected to the White Knight and so unlikely to be here. That delightful band of five heroes gathered to slay him were a firebrand on Creation that could easily be found with a Skim, as long as they were all together in one place. When that mark on the tapestry of Creation had disappeared, one of two things had happened. Either one of the party had died or they had split up to focus on separate tasks, dulling their story along with his ability to Skim for it. Considering that the whole point of this two-pronged invasion was to hopefully induce the band into splitting up, it was likely the latter was true, which meant that there’d be some left at Summerholm while others of the band traveled here to Liesse. 

He had no evidence for how many heroes would have traveled to Liesse, but the story of three villains facing three heroes was a strong one, as long as those three pairs were opposites. He’d brought the Warlock with him, so they would definitely be facing either the Apprentice or the Wizard of the West. The White Knight was his own counterpart, so that only left who would be facing the Black Knight. The Shining Prince did have a grudge with Bes, so he was a fairly likely candidate, but there was a pleasing symmetry to having a Squire fight the Black Knight. Ultimately, it depended on who was brought to fight the Warlock. The White Knight wouldn’t have left two transitional names to defend Liesse on their own, so they would face either the Apprentice and the Shining Prince, or the Wizard of the West and the Squire. Or he was completely wrong, but well, what was life without a few surprises?

“I do believe that the White Knight may have a few helpers. Perhaps even the Shining Prince?” There was no mistaking the tremor that ran through the darkness. The scent of fear and hatred nearly wafted off of him. “I’m sure that whoever it is, you’ll have no problem facing them, Bes.” The trembling stopped instantly. Almost too fast to be reacted to, a hulking mass rushed towards Traitorous. He paused to see what the Black Knight would do, and wasn’t disappointed. A massive hand lifted Traitorous into the air by his throat. 

“Don’t. Play.” Bes had always had a bit of a short fuse whenever anyone mentioned his name. It was a useful handle to jerk him around with. The hand around his throat was crushing his vocal cords slightly, so Traitorous concentrated for a moment. He started to turn translucent, and the massive paw suddenly clenched shut, before opening to reveal nothing but smoke inside. The smoke drifted away, and joined with the rest of the smoke Traitorous’s body had morphed into, which was gathering in a spot a few feet away. Suddenly, it formed the shape of a well-dressed, handsome man who was the envy of all, if Traitorous was being humble. 

Back in his normal shape, Traitorous coughed politely, before continuing as if nothing had ever happened. “Now, I do believe that we should allow those foolish heroes some time to cower in fear before our might, so let us relax for a time before our attack to give them that honor.” And so that the fighting will die down in the camp, so I can sacrifice whoever remains in the assault on the walls, he mentally appended. 

“Night. Fall.” The beast agreed. The red eyes closed once more, and his presence disappeared as if nothing had been there in the first place. Traitorous had to admit, despite the tackiness of his schtick, the Black Knight could give a grue a run for its money.

Turning and striding from the den of darkness, Traitorous gazed out over the roaring fires the once orderly camo had turned into, and mentally outlined a way to reach his second destination. Onwards, to madness and sorcery.


	6. Chapter 6

The next place to visit was the Warlock’s tent. It was fairly easy to pick out, what with the moat of lava dug around it, and the oddly shaped holes and hills scattered nearby it. The fighting was still going strong, Traitorous noted as he strode through the burning remains of a devil. He might have done his job slightly too well. Oh well, if worst came to worst, he could always abandon everything and run away. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

The sounds of death and betrayal dimmed as he approached the Warlock’s temporary residence. The tent seemed fairly untouched by the mayhem surrounding it. Pausing for a second, Traitorous examined the moat as he decided how he wanted to cross. The moat had been his suggestion, the Warlock having wanted to simply slap down some wards like some second-rate sorcerer decorating her first mage tower. Anyone with taste could tell you that classics were classics for a reason, and a few nods to previous Emperors could lend an easy yet fierce sense of menace to wayward heroes coming to defeat the latest threat. Presentation was even more important than actual effect in most cases. What did it matter if everything was a lie, if your opponent was too afraid to call your bluff?

Turning back to the moat, which was wide enough to deter idiots from jumping across it, and continued unbroken in a large circle around the tent, Traitorous determined how he was going to cross. While he could simply use his Name to dissolve into smoke and fly across, there was a fairly high chance of the Warlock picking up on its usage, and she was much easier to handle when she was surprised and caught off guard. He looked around for a second, before finding what he needed. 

There, lying out stretched on the ground, was a corpse. Judging from the deep sword wound on its back and the shabby clothing, it had been a servant who had been trying to run and hide, but had gotten caught up in the crossfire. Rolling it over to rifle through its pockets he came up with a bit of dried jerky, and a few copper denari. He pocketed the denari, waste not want not, and idly popped the jerky into his mouth. Slinging the dead body over his shoulder, he walked back to the moat. A quick tumble down the slope, and the air was filled with the now common smell of burning flesh. Chewing the suspiciously hard jerky, Traitorous looked at his work and frowned. Although human bodies didn’t burn as well as the fabric and wood all the nearby tents were made of, it was still dissolving a little too quickly for comfort. In that case, he had to turn to that old wisdom of previous Dread Emperors. If one dead body doesn’t solve the problem, multiple will. 

Once there was a nice large pile of corpses in the moat, Traitorous strode across the pile of carrion examining a drawing he’d found on one of the bodies. He had to admit, the artist was rather good, with the man’s portrait seeming rather life-like for how crinkled and worn the paper was. He’d have to think about maybe getting another portrait done when he was back in Ater. So far there were 14 different commissioned portraits of Traitorous hanging in his favorite reception hall in the Tower, each of him in a different disguise. Of course, he’d started multiple rumors about who those people in the portraits were, that would warrant the expense and personal attention of the Dread Emperor. His favorite that he’d spread was that the portraits were a magical focus, and that the men and women in them were those closest to attaining the Name of Dread Emperor. It was always the rumors with a hint of truth that spread the fastest. 

Clearing his head of idle thoughts, Traitorous stopped for a moment in front of the Warlock’s tent and breathed in. While not as short tempered as the Black Knight, the Warlock was more discerning, and harder to manipulate. The best way to deal with her was to never let her catch her balance. Plastering a large, lunatic grin on his face, he threw open the flap to the tent. As a loud alarm ward went off, Traitorous strode into pandemonium. 

“Fuck  _ off! _ ” Was the shouted scream of Hoseyn Mifsud, latest person to claim the Name of Warlock. Rather short for a Tahgreb, she nonetheless looked the part of an insane Warlock, wrapped up in her latest scheme to break Creation. Desperately attending to three different flashing circles with psychedelic magics whirling around her, ignoring how part of her robe appeared to be on fire. Every few seconds, a small rip in reality seemed to almost burp out a minor abomination. Everywhere he looked there were miniature devils running, hiding, screeching, and attacking each other over who could do the former tasks better. A slowly building whine in one warded circle that was flashing worryingly, was accompanied by the slow appearance of a leg that appeared to be made of maggots. Mifsud snapped her fingers without even turning to look at the circle, and it imploded, leaving behind a mass of spreading maggots that were eagerly set upon by the smaller devils.

“My dearest friend,” Traitorous started, carefully projecting his voice so that it would carry without him seeming like he was screaming. “I bring great tidings!”

“Unless you’ve brought whoever started summoning that angel to me with a sword shoved up their ass you can fuck off right back where you came from. That blast disrupted five different year long projects, and I am sick to fucking shit of this fucking trip!  _ Fuck! _ ” 

Traitorous detected a slight hint of frustration in his loyal Warlock. 

He knew that he couldn’t keep stringing her along with vague promises of secrets for any longer. Once she’d calmed down, she’d no doubt be extremely eager for the chance to vivisect an angel. The only problem was calming her down before she decided to cut her losses and gallivant off into the night.

“While I do have news on the angel summoning, would you prefer my assistance in dealing with this latest problem first?”

“Whatever!” The dark toned woman had torn one particularly feisty devil in two, and was using its still twitching leg as a pen to write runes in the air with its blood. 

Hm. The quickest issue to solve would be the myriad devils running everywhere. Their propensity for messing up carefully warded test chambers that the Warlock then had to deal with made them his first priority. He could try going after them one by one and slowly whittling them down, but the crack in the air that was constantly spewing out more made it unfeasible. The quick way it was then. It’d be a nice warm-up for later. 

**“Control.”** The aspect rang out from Traitorous, and the tent fell almost silent. Every devil in the room stopped where they were, and the only noise left was the hum of overstressed wards. The Tahgreb woman paused to look at him. It was his most well-known aspect, but he preferred to refrain from demonstrating the extent of his powers if he wasn’t planning on killing the witness. Well, considering that they were going to try and fight an angel, none of them were likely to survive today, so it was essentially the same result. 

“Perhaps you should consider closing that hole, Warlock.” He said, nodding towards the miniature portal to hell. She watched him for a long second, scrutinizing him to see what else he would reveal, before turning away. Idly, Traitorous commanded the devils under his control to match outside. While it would be wrong to say that he could see out of his minions eyes, his constant use of  **skim** left him with a rather complete mental image of the surroundings, and the tendrils his aspect used to control those unfortunate enough to be targeted allowed him to maneuver his victims without his direct presence. In groups, he marched the aggravating little beasts into the lava, until every last one of the devils had been exterminated. 

He continued to browse the makeshift laboratory that the Warlock had set up. While the tanned woman worked her magic, he identified what looked like the most complicated warding circle nearby, and quietly inserted a fragment of Name power. Traitorous quickly strode away from the now unstable ward, and moved to examine a beaker that was filled with what looked like blood. While uncorking it to sniff and see if he was right, the glass was rudely ripped out of his hands. 

“Get your dirty fucking paws off of my shit.” The Warlock was not distracted anymore, if the glare she was shooting at him was any indication. He held up his hands in mock acquiescence.

“I was only aiming to aid in your cleanup efforts. But if you don’t require my assistance anymore, then I suppose I should come to the point of my visit.” He paused for a second to see if Mifsud planned to chime in. He took her angry silence as agreement to continue. The best way to distract her from her anger was to deflect her attention to her experiments, and given that he’d just executed most of them, he’d have to go with the second best way of giving her an easy magic oriented task. “First, what have you determined about the angel that is being summoned?” The woman’s eyes instantly lit up. 

“The shockwaves originated from the beginning of a ritual to bring the Hashmallim into phase with Creation, which is rather interesting, as it usually isn’t directly called, but instead will act through metaphysical nexuses. But more importantly, this discovery supports my theory that as the cosmological counterparts of devils, angels also have mathematical concepts tied intrinsically into their self.” She started pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly. “There were seven distinct amplitudes in the aftershocks, it reached out to what I suspect was seven miles in diameter, it pierced through exactly seven layers of warding, and so on. I’d stake my Sight on the fact that the ritual will take exactly seven hours from start to finish.”

“So if the ritual takes seven hours, then we have about six hours left before the Hashmallim are summoned, correct?” Traitorous intercut. The Tahgreb paused for a second, before nodding. 

“It’s not summoning, just smashing open the walls of Creation until they’re wide enough for an angel to fit through, but yes.” A smile slid across Traitorous’s face. 

“What a coincidence that nightfall is in a little under six hours.” Right when the Black Knight would finally be able to join the attack. The Warlock looked at him oddly. 

“It is a coincidence. There is no sorcerous interconnection between nightfall and the Hashmallim.” She stated dismissively. Traitorous simply smiled and nodded, as she continued to pace. “With this opportunity I’ll be able to write my name in history! Being remembered as the first Warlock to ever compel an angel is going to be fucking incredible.”

Traitorous turned away from the woman, idly grabbing a staff engraved with runes that seemed to shift when not watched. “Don’t think that I’ve just given you this chance out of the kindness of my heart. You’ll owe me a favor once this is accomplished.” He told her, testing the heft of the wood. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Owe you a favor?” She scoffed. “You owe me twenty fucking favors for leaving my tower to traipse around in the middle of fucking nowhere all for some bullshit… reagents…” A look of dawning realization stole across Mifsud’s face. “You had no clue that this angel was going to be summoned, did you? You’d have tried to bribe me with the knowledge, not materials.” This was why it was always tiring to deal with her. Too perceptive for her own good. 

A villain always had to be careful when he lied. The truth almost always came to light, often at the worst possible time. It was always better to deflect a question than to lie, and have the mistake come back to haunt you. 

“I simply trusted one of my closest companions to be able to handle a mere angel. Was I wrong to do so?” Traitorous taunted her. She ignored him, eyes staring into space. 

“But if you had no idea about the angel, then why’d you even begin this expedition?”

“Oh, I would never-“ Traitorous tried to cut in, but she talked over him. 

“That means that you’re scrambling for a plan right now.” Traitorous stilled, and leaned the staff that he was examining against a counter. This conversation was taking a dangerous turn. 

“You don’t even have a plan right now do you?” A fool would think that a subordinate expressing doubt in a secure location was perfectly fine. The problem was thus: the narrative impact of one of his Named directly challenging his competence would send ripples through all of his plots. 

Traitorous had built up his reputation as an dishonorable schemer enough that Creation itself recognized it, and so as long as he acted like a genius planner, providence would contrive for his plots to work. Creation thought he was a schemer, because he had tricked Creation into thinking he was a schemer. It was circular logic, and the moment he stopped balancing the deceits and falsehoods, it would all come tumbling down. And powerful and important Named questioning his reputation as a crafty villain was like taking a hammer to a scale, completely destroying the careful story he’d crafted. 

“You’re pretending like you aren’t desperately presenting a front of competence, when-“ Without moving a muscle, Traitorous commanded the morsel of power he’d set in the ward earlier to explode. An unassuming bang reached his ears, before smoke started filling the tent again, and sirens started blaring. The Warlock cursed. 

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation another time.” Traitorous informed her calmly. She seemed to ignore him, rushing to find out what had gone wrong. “The assault on the walls will begin at nightfall, and you, I, and the Black Knight will convene shortly beforehand to prepare.” He opened the tent door, the smoke inside rushing out to mix with the smoke from the fires burning outside, before turning to try and plaster over the failure this conversation had become. “I look forward to another meeting with my closest companions.” He told her, wearing a bright smile. She merely waved a hand, causing the flap to slam shut in his face, sealing herself within. 

Traitorous acknowledged that the conversation could have gone better. It was always a pain to be around Mifsud. She reminded him too much of his own brother. Well, what was done was done. A villain always kept his eyes on the present. Starting to whistle, Traitorous picked his way through the camp. Now that the initial frenzy of betrayals had died off and enough time had passed for the survivors to consolidate their remaining assets, he would need to start meeting with the envoys he’d been avoiding if he wanted to remain influential within the army. Well, the plan was for them all to die anyway, so it didn’t really matter if they lost faith in him in these last few hours. 

Eventually, the Dread Emperor broke free of the ragged campsite and walked among the abandoned huts of Callowan farmers who took shelter behind the walls of Liesse. It amazed him that these peasants were content with lives of menial, backbreaking labor, day after day, without ever attaining the ambition to better their lives. The farmers of the Green Stretch were constantly migrating, as poor young men and women left to try their fortunes in cities, and were replaced by slightly older jaded failures who came back even poorer than before. But, he mused, examining a finely carved wooden duck, just because the Callowans were lesser, there was no need to underestimate them. 

He turned the wooden duck over, to see a rough “R” scratched into the bottom of the duck, at odds with the almost polished cut of the rest of the bird. Clearly it was some child’s beloved toy, left behind in the hurry to reach safety. Traitorous tucked it away in a pocket, before leaving the hut. There was a beautiful tree outside to sit and wait under for the coming nightfall, and he figured he might as well relax in what might be his final hours. 

Bundling up his cloak to use as a pillow, Traitorous let out a sigh as he stretched out on the grass. As much fun as running a nation into the ground was, doing it properly left little time to relax. When was the last time he’d spent not manipulating one noble or another? Well, there was that trip to Stygia. Wait, no, the magistrate there probably counted as nobles. There was that peasant rebellion in Foramen near the start of his reign. No, Duaa had become the High Lady, which if he remembered right, retroactively made her legally a noble. Oh! That week when he was recovering from being thrown off a cliff by the Sage of the West! He’d been beaten badly enough that he couldn’t even write letters like he usually did when he was recovering from a hero encounter. 

While taking pride in something usually led to an ironic failure for a villain, Traitorous had to admit that he felt he’d handled that situation particularly well. A few years ago he’d been investigating the Waning Woods for something to potentially wake up and point at Callow, when he’d run into the Sage. Negotiations broke down quickly once she realized who he was, and he was trapped in the middle of the Sage’s homeground, with no backup, and no story to fall back on. 

Other Dread Emperors may have been able to blow past this opposition on sheer power, but Traitorous had given up physical force in favor of flexibility. If he’d tried to fight her, the Callowan would have splattered the trees with his insides before wandering back to her meditation or whatever those hermit heroes did. She came rather close on many occasions, but he managed to delay his demise by that most revered of villainous tactics. Running away like a coward. Eventually in his mad scramble to find an escape from the hero doing her damndest to kill him, he’d managed to find a cliff. From there, he’d simply had to start fighting back, be overwhelmed, and then let himself be thrown off the cliff to his certain doom. While spending her years sharpening her skills in the wilderness may have made the Sage of the West an unstoppable force of the heavens, it didn’t do any favors to her storycraft. 

But a lesson had to be taken from that encounter, because when a Named stopped learning, stopped growing, they died. And the lesson he had taken away was this: without a sacrifice, he had no ability to take on the might of the heavens. Even the heroic bands he had defeated had been carefully manipulated to attain a victory through their murder of powerful Praesi, before he killed them with their promised victory used up. And now that he was going to face an angel head on, he wasn’t sure if the tattered remnants of the Praesi power had enough narrative weight to keep Providence from overturning all of his scheming. 

The only chance he had was if this suicide attack of a plan had enough narrative weight to let him face off against the Hashmallim. While the failure of an army he led was no great sacrifice, the metaphorical sacrifice of the two greatest Named under his command was what he was hoping would cause the Gods Below to grant him their favor. Otherwise, he would join that long list of overconfident Dread Emperors, and be remembered as simply one in a long line of fools, no different from the rest of those madmen. He would be forgotten. And since he couldn’t allow that to happen, he simply had to win. Traitorous couldn’t help himself. He laughed. A pitiful joke, to be sure, but so close to what might be his death, he only felt exhilarated. All that was left to do was relax. Wait for nightfall, and the upcoming battle. Then, the dice would roll, secrets would be unearthed, and someone would lose. 

A smile stretched across his face. Traitorous couldn’t wait. 


	7. Chapter 7

The first to arrive was the Warlock. The sun was just starting to lower in the sky as she approached, and silently she conjured up a flame to float above her shoulder as she settled in to wait. She had changed from the stained robes she was wearing in her tent, to simple trousers and a clean long sleeved shirt. She would have looked like an average Praesi mage, were it not for the necklace around her neck that held a shining jewel that looked like crystallized blood, and the dagger at her hip adorned with that same blood like substance and made of obsidian. 

The Black Knight arrived mere minutes after the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. Padding in silently on bare feet, his pale, corpse-like skin stood out in the twilight. The flickering firelight cast his features into shadow, causing the almost nine foot behemoth to look less like a man, and more like some devil, born and summoned for war. The man wore no armor, and carried no sword. For all that he disdained the trappings of his Name however, he embodied the essence of his role. Sheer power that crushed everything in its path. 

Traitorous got up from his seat, stretching to get the blood flowing in his limbs. He settled his cloak back around his shoulders, a welcome reprieve from the chill brought by the night. Bloodstained and dirty from the day’s work, the cloak had seen better days. Not only the cloak, but the long red robes underneath were crumpled and stained. To anybody that met him, he looked like a conman, running from vengeance and desperate for safety. He looked like an easy target, a pushover. He looked vulnerable, weak, and the farthest possible thing from being invincible. Traitorous grinned. 

“So, Warlock, my loveliest of companions, how much time do we have before an angel descends and we have a lovely conversation?” The woman stayed silent for a moment as she gently grasped her necklace and stared in the direction of Liesse. 

“32 minutes before the Hashmallim is fully phased into being.” 

“Well then, my closest of friends!” The man who had caused all of them to be stranded in this foreign land began striding towards Liesse, chatting and smiling as if he wasn’t about to clash with the heavens themselves. “I suppose that we might as well start this party off right!” The other two followed in his wake, drawn along like wreckage in a ship’s passage. 

“ **Control** .” The Dread Emperor ordered, and the word reverberated across the land. He felt his Name flood to life, expanding his mind. It reached out into Creation, and forced it to his will. He shivered, as more power than any man should ever hold filled his mortal frame. It was no wonder that most Dread Emperors went mad with power, when this was what it felt like to use it. It felt like completion, becoming more of who he was. But in this instance, it was almost too much. He’d never used the aspect on this large of a scale. He was dimly aware of blood leaking out from underneath the fingernails of his hands. Idly, he forced the sound of his Name roaring at him to crush his enemies and see them driven before him to the back of his mind. There were almost three thousand souls under his complete dominion now. And power being used like this never went unnoticed. 

The shockwaves of power passed through the other two Named, leaving them unaffected. Already, Traitorous noticed movement on the battlements ahead, as city guards were panicking over the aftershocks of his aspect. But the most startling impact was on the Praesi camp. Men and women streamed from hiding places, coming at the order of their Emperor. Bitter rivals marched right next to one another, orcs mixed with the most staunch of racists, and masters followed their servants. Traitorous could pick out slowly rising panic on some of the mage’s faces as they struggled to free themselves, but all of the other soldiers looked the picture of contentment to march towards their doom. It was a sight to see. 

The bloody dagger his Name took the form of had appeared in his hand without him noticing, shining with a malevolent light. It pulled him towards the city in front of him, thirsty for blood and destruction. With a force of will, Traitorous returned it to nothingness. The Name of Dread Emperor was a powerful one, and without careful consideration would shift his judgement and lead him off a cliff. It was due to his failure to resist his Name as the Chancellor that he’d even become the Dread Emperor. Dismissing the thoughts from his mind, he joined his army.

In no time at all, Traitorous stood before the gates of Liesse, his army in front of him and his Named at his side. Sharpening his eyes to see the small figures above the gate, Traitorous frowned thoughtfully. There were only a few dozen city guards and fewer volunteers not wearing uniforms. He’d guessed that the city had around 500 guards and could scrounge another couple hundred civilian volunteers in the face of the enemy, but uh, that guess was only slightly more reliable than writing numbers on a page and throwing darts at it. 

The aspect that he normally relied on to keep from stumbling blindly around wasn’t exactly helpful in this case. His use of it had given him a short list of nobles who’d been reaching out to the Cunning General to help with his coup, evidence of a few sanctioned assassinations from the late King, and juiciest of all, the knowledge of a bastard the Shining Prince had fathered on the late Unfettered Sister. But unfortunately, the aspect was rather unconcerned with present military concerns, more focused on dredging up dark and buried secrets. Normally it was extremely useful, but it left something to be desired in situations like this. 

Now, while Traitorous wasn’t exactly celebrated as a genius military commander, he felt he was a reasonably competent general. Sure, he’d technically never won a single battle he’d commanded, but he meant to lose most of them, so really that meant that he was excellent at achieving his objectives. 

If he was right, and the Callowans had about a thousand men, then it was fairly reasonable for them to be able to fight off his three thousand with the use of walls and the story of defending against the wicked invaders. But the enemy commander didn’t have his men lining the walls to launch attacks on the Praesi as they marched up. It made no sense. And it made Traitorous nervous. 

Crafting a story of a fight between heroes and villains was a delicate thing. A single missed detail could turn a story from two heroic bands from tearing each other apart to teaming up against a greater evil. And in this case, Traitorous was aiming to construct a very simple and straightforward story. Villains versus heroes, with the stronger Named winning. The villains would be winning the fight, until the White Knight finished summoning his angel. Then, with the help of the Choir of Contrition, the hero would force them to become contrite. And that was when Traitorous would strike. 

Unfortunately, the villains had an army, while the heroes had only a few guards. If he left the army behind, then he’d have to personally slaughter his way through the guards to get to the heroes. It would be relatively easy, but then the heroes would be “avenging their fallen comrades” and they’d just be the slightest bit quicker, smallest bit more capable, making it much harder for his coterie to have the crushing victory initially that his plot called for. If he brought his army with him, then there were three possible outcomes. 

First, the Praesi could be defeated handily. Unlikely, but greater feats had been achieved with less. In this case, the story likely became “The cavalry riding in to rescue the heroes” which would lead to his defeat at best, and death at worst. 

Second, his army could crush the defenders. It changed the story to heroes fighting off the villainous invaders and their army, in addition to leaving him with a handful of unsavory options. Either he left his army to run free in the middle of a crowded Callowan city, which would only add weight to the story of evil invaders, or he kept control over them through the use of his aspect which would leave him at a severe disadvantage when the confrontation with the heroes began. 

As both of those outcomes were unpalatable, he simply had to manipulate the situation so that a third would commence. The two forces would clash, and either they would wipe each other out, or the battle would take so long to be decided it would become irrelevant. Which brought him back to the original problem. If he didn’t know how strong the enemy force was, he didn’t know how much to handicap his own. And so the first thing to remedy was his lack of information. 

“Let us go and greet the Callowans, shall we? It would be terribly improper to start this battle without a meeting first.” Traitorous strode forward, hoping to mask his unsteadiness with bravado. The Black Knight grunted, and strode ahead. The walls of Liesse looked ahead of them, and the men guarding the wall shouted the only warning needed as they approached. 

Named. 

The Black Knight tensed, a small flare of his Name flashing, before leaping to land on the battlements. The Warlock spat on the ground, before tapping her necklace twice to create a platform of sorcery that slowly raised her into the air, before depositing her gently onto the wall. Traitorous grinned, despite the power thrumming through his body making it feel like it was going to explode. He might as well join them. Tapping into his Name even more, he burst into smoke, before rocketing towards the ramparts in a stream of smog and darkness, tendrils of shade reaching out to those mortals who hadn’t fled quickly enough, before reforming himself tightly gripping on to a fortunately placed railing to keep from pitching over into the horrified Callowans. 

Traitorous tried to pretend that he’d planned on doing that. Something to take note of, he mused, desperately trying to calm his racing heart, was that his Name overcharged anything he tried to do when he was calling on an aspect so strongly. He felt vaguely like throwing up, which he probably would if he could actually feel his body. It still felt like smoke and darkness, twisted into a humanoid shape. Luckily, a man who stood apart from the crowd of grim-eyed Callowans distracted him from dwelling on it. 

“Praesi.” The word dripped with enough hatred and disdain to make a High Lord proud. Even at a glance, Traitorous could tell that the man was Named. Since he was male, that ruled out three of the seven heroes he knew of. The longbow on his back made it unlikely for him to be the Wizard of the West, and Traitorous had met the White Knight, and this man didn’t exclude the same sense of calm that the Knight did. That left only the Shining Prince and the Commander as candidates. The darker skin tone that could almost pass for Tahgreb hinted to Traitorous to assume he was the Commander, that traditional Deoraithe Name, but he could simply be some random tribal hero called up by providence to fight. He seemed to have a special hatred for Praesi, more than a random tribal would, which did match with how Traitorous had learned in a  **skim** that the Commander’s previous husband had been murdered by a Praesi raid. Best to guess now, as it added to his reputation as well-informed if he was right, and if he was wrong he could try and play it off as a joke. 

“Good evening, Commander!” Traitorous exclaimed, taking pains to sound as bright and cheery as possible. “Lovely sunset wasn’t it?”

“You are a stain upon Creation, and I will throw your remains to the pigs.” Traitorous smiled. The absence of a denial was as good as a confirmation in this case. 

“My friends and I were hoping to have a friendly chat with the White Knight. Would you be so kind as to direct us towards him?” 

“ **Lead** .” The Commander called out as a response. Guards came streaming out of the nearby houses, calmly taking up positions surrounding the villains. At a hand signal from the Commander, archers popped up from their hiding spots and loosed a volley straight at the invaders. Traitorous simply glanced at his Warlock, who already had a hand on her necklace. A sphere of flames flared to life around them, melting and turning aside every incoming arrow. 

The Black Knight stepped through the blaze, uncaring as fire licked at his skin. Holding out his hand, a spear of shadows materialized in his grasp. The monster stared down the man facing him. Almost too quickly to see, he launched the spear screaming through the air at his enemy. The Commander flipped out of the way, letting the spear sink halfway into the pavement where it rested for a moment before exploding and filling the air with dust and grit. The Warlock dismissed her protection.

“Can we stop fucking around and get to the ritual site already? I will need time to properly bend the Hashmallim to my control.” Mifsud tapped out a complicated beat on her necklace, before turning towards a deeper part of the city. “It’s about a mile ahead.”

“Of course!” Traitorous replied. “Just, Black Knight?” He said, motioning for the man’s attention. “Would you be so kind as to open that gate for our army?” The monster in question jumped down into the city, ignoring the Callowans backing up to give him space. Stopping a few feet from the gates, he set his stance as if he would break down the twenty foot tall steel gates down with a single punch. 

“ **Crush.** ” The Named rumbled out, before proceeding to do exactly that. The crumpled remains of the gate flew out into the flatlands surrounding Liesse, crushing some of the Praesi unfortunate enough to be in its way. 

Traitorous mentally ordered his army to attack, as he looked for some stairs leading down off the wall. It would rather spoil his image if he were to use his Name to get down from the wall, only to immediately start throwing up. 

The Commander had vanished, and although there were already screams behind them as the defenders clashed with the Praesi invaders, the villains proceeded unmolested deeper into Liesse, the Callowans silently letting them pass. With a Named with the ability to command armies on the Callowan side, Traitorous felt reassured that his army would be defeated. Funneling them through a small opening like a permanently opened gate would keep the Callowans from being overwhelmed, while at the same time keeping the defenders from murdering his own soldiers too quickly. If he let off the use of his aspect, and allowed the Praesi the use of magic instead of using them as disposable bodies, they had a fair chance to win, but that was the reason he had the aspect. His Name had recognized his desire to force others into following his plans, and granted him the ability to do so.

His control aspect was something of a sledgehammer, compared to the seventh sense that was skim, and the metaphorical scalpel that was his last aspect. When one could simply throw a bomb into the middle of their enemies' plans, it made it much easier to outsmart them while they raced to adapt to the changing circumstances. 

As he followed the Warlock into Liesse, his Name roared in protest at leaving a hero unchallenged to tear through his pawns. Traitorous crushed its voice. It tended to be a bit… overenthusiastic. Although speaking of the Commander, his appearance was a surprise. There was no reason that Traitorous could think of that he would be here, which meant that he had miscalculated something. Keeping that same vaguely smug smile on his face, he continued down the streets with his guard up, waiting to see if someone else would blindside him.

The Commander, full name Aiden of House Conaill, was a typical example of his Name. A soldier galvanized through some loss to improve Deoraithe forces and prevent that tragedy from occurring ever again. When Traitorous had been newer to his Name, and unaware of the dangers of skimming for Named, he had come across the man, and skimmed deeply. It had been a… disorienting experience. 

_ He saw a hand falling limp, wedding ring covered with blood. He felt the heft of a thousand and one weapons, each perfectly fitted to his hand. He heard a thousand voices as one, united in spite. He smelled an endless fight, sweat and steel and constant vigilance. He tasted victory, sweetened with shed blood and matured with loss. _

Yes, luckily all that that mistake had led to was a few days of hallucinations as he tried to sort out who he was. 

The deserted streets of Liesse gave off a nostalgic feeling, reminding him of combing through abandoned sections of Ater with his brother searching for salvage in his youth. Simpler days, certainly. But he’d never want to go back. It simply wasn’t the Praesi nature to settle for less. 

Seemingly quickly, they broke free of the clustered streets and into a cleared area. It looked like it had once been an open air market, placed right next to a lake so local fishermen wouldn’t have to go far to sell their catch. Now though, all the stalls had been swept away leaving only the bare cobble. The only thing of note left was a small, run-down church that the Warlock had unerringly led them towards. Traitorous grinned. This was an excellent place for a showdown between good and evil. And the only obstacle in their way was a lone young woman. 

Traitorous focused on the girl. She gave off the feeling of a Name, but not clearly enough to tell what it was. She looked rather young, but the lines on her face precluded easy guesses of her age. Her skin was dark enough that she was likely Tahgreb or Deoraithe. Perhaps she had been the one to call in the Commander? Her age and gender left her identity to be either the Squire or the Apprentice. The lack of visible weapons and the fact that they had already met a hero who could fight the Black Knight leaned him towards her being the Apprentice. That meant that the three heroes defending Liesse were the Apprentice, the Commander, and the White Knight.

Well, Traitorous mused, the other army was going to be completely destroyed, if Liesse truly had the Shining Prince, the Squire, and the Wizard of the West defending it. He mentally thanked Temitope for his gallant sacrifice.

Turning his thoughts back to the situation in front of him, Traitorous attempted to recall what he knew about the Apprentice. She was newer, having been with the Fae for many years. A skim on her past had only revealed the scent of suffering crossed with the touch of inner steel. The lack of information just meant that he had to be a little tricky.

Mifsud stalked forward, sneering. “You think you can fool me with your petty illusions?” She brought up her dagger and flicked it at the girl. The girl vanished and reappeared several yards back, the space where she had once been replaced with an intricately drawn circle. Traitorous narrowed his eyes. That magic had caused the red jewel in her dagger to dim slightly while as far as he could tell the color of the necklace had not changed, despite the greater amount of defensive magic used. A weakness? Something to take note of anyway.

The Apprentice stomped her foot, causing a gout of flame to fire up from where her illusion had been. With a thrust of her hand, the flames transformed into a hundred birds and flew directly at the Warlock, seeming to twitter from the speed of their passing. The Tahgreb woman held her necklace up in front of her, and the constructs were engulfed in a vortex that swallowed them into the jewel. It shone with a bright light, before she tapped it with her dagger and drew a simple rune in the air, the dagger leaving behind trails of black corruption. Reality seemed to shatter somehow, and when the distortions cleared a pair of pitch-black hounds snarled at Creation. Without an order from their summoner, the dogs leapt at the Apprentice, hungry for flesh. 

The Black Knight examined their surroundings, probably searching for that weakness that Traitorous had lied about, as the mages continued their duel. Traitorous couldn’t have helped, even if he hadn’t been more focused on keeping his slowly dwindling army running to their deaths. The Commander had evidently pulled some trick, because several hundred had died in an instant. It was just as well that he had planned for them to all die. 

As the Warlock continued her duel with the Apprentice, Traitorous imagined the situation as a story. The villains have engaged the lone hero, who is desperately trying to keep them from interrupting her comrade’s call for help. All according to plan, except the hero doesn’t have the power to hold back both the Warlock and the Black Knight, no matter what story she had on her side. 

A loud yelp pierced the air along with the sound of something breaking. The Knight looked anxious to join in, only holding back out of a twisted sense of courtesy.

And if the Apprentice couldn’t handle both villains, then that meant that some other situation would come up to prevent the Black Knight from helping. While it could be a forgotten family member or sudden strike of conscience, Traitorous knew for a fact that the monster was an amoral, self-made orphan. Most likely a hero would step in to fight, and given that the only other one they’d seen recently was the Commander, he’d bet on him coming in for a round. 

Traitorous walked forward, making sure to keep from looking back at the direction they’d come from. If the hero was going to join the fight, it was best to know exactly how they would arrive. The best way to do that was to portray a weakness that no hero would keep from capitalizing on. And what kind of hero could give up the chance to kill the Dread Emperor?

Traitorous started the process to turn into smoke, hiding how his body had started to dematerialize under his cloak. Enough of the men under the sway of his aspect had died that he figured he could control his powers without vomiting. 

Traitorous felt a slight unease. Immediately he finished the process, leaving an afterimage as he shrunk down and compressed into a tiny ball of smog. In that exact moment, the Commander pierced through where his chest had been with his sword, causing Traitorous to explode into a burst of darkness and smoke. The hero tumbled past the sudden storm of shade, his momentum carrying him towards where the mages had continued their duel. 

Traitorous rematerialized a few feet away, carelessly leaning against a wall. He tried to portray casualness, as if he was leaning against a nearby wall because he wanted to, not that he would fall over if he wasn’t. A pause fell over the battlefield, as the mages broke off their fight to evaluate the interloper. Both looked slightly worse for the wear, the Warlock completely soaked somehow, and the Apprentice sporting a few gashes on her face. 

The Black Knight let loose with a low bass growl, eager for the chance to crush a hero. He lifted his spear to point at the Commander. The two men squared off, the tanned man facing a pale-skinned monster.

Traitorous grinned. Heroes desperately holding off Villains so their comrade could summon backup. Outmatched and outnumbered, there was no possible way that they could stay alive. 

Traitorous figured it was time to trot out that old classic. When clashing with heroes, one had to conduct themselves according to a certain etiquette. 

“Our victory is inevitable!” He proclaimed, with a smile wide enough to swallow the entire world.


	8. Chapter 8

The Damned stood before the Apprentice, and she was afraid. 

It brought back the years spent under the cruel care of the Fae. The cruel grin on the sorceress opposing her reminded her of the Duchess of the Relentless Current, laughing as she desperately attempted to keep warm in the dead of winter. The monster with burning red eyes brought back nightmares of sleepless nights in the middle of an unending forest, being hunted through dreams and reality alike. And the last man reminded her of her single experience with the Queen of Winter herself. Not in skin color, for she had been pale as snow while the man was dark as sin, nor in mannerisms, for his smile hadn’t yet left his face while the Queen’s anger was legendary. It was the look in their eyes. That all-consuming hunger, that would never be sated. 

Yet despite the villainy opposing her, she stood straight. She wasn’t that young girl who’d fled into the Brocelian Forest to escape the taunting of her peers. She was no longer just the Apprentice to the Lady of Falling Snow, favored mortal toy of the Winter Court. She was a hero, one of a band dedicated to preventing evil in all its forms. She was Stella Tanja, and though it likely meant her death, she faced them head on.

Ever since her arrival in Callow, she had been struck by the differences from her homeland. She had expected to have to fight to establish her place and prove her worth, yet from her first exchange with the White Knight, all she’d found was open camaraderie and friendship. Any infighting was always a waste in Callowan eyes, because weakness was always capitalized on by the Enemy.

To her side, the Commander sheathed his sword, and pulled out a pair of knives stashed in the belt over his shoulder. There was no trace of the cool and slightly sardonic man who had greeted her earlier. There was only a raw, naked hatred etched into every vein of his face. 

There was a fragile peace, as the two heroes stared down the villains. The Apprentice held still, keeping herself from lashing out. Time was on their side. Every second that passed brought the return of the White Knight closer. The first one to break the standoff was the man that David had warned her about. 

“Now, I understand that there may have been some slight misunderstandings between our august personages.” The Dread Emperor himself stepped forward, a mad grin stretched across his face. “However, I believe that an agreement could be reached among people with common interests such as us.”

She heard the Commander’s teeth grind against each other, his muscles straining to leap forward. But he held his silence, knowing the same as her that letting the Emperor monologue was in their best interests.

“Commander, what reason do you have to protect the White Knight? He deliberately excluded you from his heroic band, and every day you spend away from the Wall is ripe for the raids to break through. And we all know how those raids can end up, don’t we?”

The Deoraithe man stayed silent, knuckles turning white around the grip of his knives.

“I promise you,” the man began with a twinkle in his eye, ”If you let me pass, my men will throw down their arms, and I will not harm any civilian in this city.”

“I would sooner cut my own throat than let you pass, Traitorous.” The Commander growled.

“Well, I’ll take that as a maybe.” The devil in the form of a man turned to her. His eyes searched her for weakness. She glared back at him. “Now, as for you, my lovely young lady, is there something that you would like in exchange for your departure from this fight? Don’t think of it as a  _ bribe _ , just a... late coming of age gift.”

Lower Miezan still felt clumsy on her tongue, but the Squire had been an eager teacher. “Fuck off and die.”

The man looked delighted by the profanity. 

“I had been wondering where you were from. That’s a lovely Alavan accent you have there, my compatriot.” He leaned in closer, speaking in a faux-whisper. “I am given to understand that it is quite a trip from here to your homeland. If you could be persuaded to step aside, I happen to have under my command a fleet of ships ready to set forth for whatever destination would be convenient.”

Perhaps he hadn’t gotten the message the first time. Praesi were well known to be moronic. “Fuck off and  _ die _ .” She repeated in a louder tone of voice.

He simply grinned in response, seeming unaffected by the naked hostility. 

“It seems that despite the best efforts of all parties, that diplomacy has broken down. It truly is a tragedy, but I sincerely believe that we will become the greatest of comrades in the future.” He turned away from the heroes, and motioned to his minions. “Warlock. Black Knight. Kill them” He ordered, the smile never leaving his face. 

The words had scarcely left his mouth when the Black Knight leapt at the Commander. The spear wielding monster clashed with the knife-armed general in a burst of force that kicked up dust all around them. Stella tore her attention away from the men, and focused on her opponent once more. 

“You will make an excellent test subject.” The Warlock said, magic glittering on her fingertips.

Stella spit on the ground. “Your blood will water these lands.” She rejoined in her home tongue. 

Their clash had shown she was outmatched, before the Commander had interrupted. She would have to spend her life carefully, and buy as much time as she could. It would do them no good if she died too soon.

She had never had a formal education, and she was sure that any formal mage would be ashamed of her dueling techniques. But she had  **Learned** under the tutelage of the Lady of Falling Snow, and picked up tricks from the seven years spent in the Fae courts. What she lacked in technique, she made up in experience. So when the Warlock sent a blast of hellfire at her, she was already drawing the rune to take control of it. 

Runes were her specialty, intricate symbols that represented the central aspects of reality. She was capable in the use of dozens of runes, was aware of hundreds more, and knew that there were thousands more to discover. It was a relatively tricky matter to adapt her methods for dealing with Summer flame to control hellfire, but with enough knowledge, anything was possible. Everything in Creation was made up of aspects, from the greatest sorceries, to the dirt that she stood on now. And with enough practice, those aspects could be magnified, twisted, or even completely changed.

Summer fires had aspects of destruction and purification, normal fire had aspects of purification and mortality, and it appeared that hellfire had aspects of hunger and destruction. A quick rune of void allowed the hell flames’ hunger to run out of fuel, leaving only destruction. The fireball hurtling towards her expanded, the flames losing their sickly tint but gaining a strange keening noise as it accelerated crossing a dozen feet in a second. In the last moment before it hit her, she flung a small bolt of magic into the center of the ball, destabilizing the structure and causing the attack to detonate in a fiery implosion. The force hit her like a horse, but even as she flew backwards, she had started casting again. As the explosion hid her from view, she muttered a small incantation, cloaking herself with moonbeams. 

Creeping to the side of the repurposed distraction, she saw that the Warlock had not been idle while she had been dealing with the attack. She was in the middle of burning a circle into the ground with a beam shooting from her dagger, filled with small runes and swirls that would magnify her spells.

Opening a pouch at her side, the Apprentice withdrew a single hawk feather, faintly glowing and seeming to rustle in an unnoticeable wind. It brought with it one of the few happy memories she had of her time in Arcadia. Careless evenings spent laughing with the Lord of Red Oak, scattered lessons of falconry, and place of rare safety. His final gift was a powerful artifact, used in the right conditions, with aspects of flow and force. 

Squaring her stance, she lifted the feather high above her head, and began filling it with power. The Warlock had almost finished her circle when the Apprentice attacked. Slashing with the feather, a small tornado roared at the woman. The Warlock only had time for a panicked shield, before the winds picked her up and threw her into a building. 

The Apprentice let out a slow exhale, slouching slightly. The artifact had dimmed, and seemed an ordinary feather now. Placing it back in her pouch carefully, she took a moment to catch her breath and check on her companion. 

The Commander seemed to be locked in a stalemate with the Black Knight, dashing in to slash at the monster with a pair of daggers, before flipping over him to avoid a swing of his spear that snapped through the air. He attempted to slice a tendon only for the Black Knight to catch him with a powerful boot, sending him flying back. Rolling to bleed the momentum, the man came back up with a pair of throwing knives which were launched directly at the Knight’s eyes, and batted away with a careless backhand, not even drawing blood. 

Backing up, the Commander pulled a longbow from… somewhere inside his cloak, launching a flurry of arrows at his opponent. Snarling, the Black Knight leaped forward and attempted to thrust his spear straight through the hero’s spine, only to be blocked by an ungainly twist of the bow. 

Letting his spear drop, the Black Knight lashed out with a lightning quick hand to seize the Commander by the throat. Lifting him up off the ground, the man writhed, desperately clawing at the behemoth’s grip. The monster spoke his first words of the night, in a horrible tortured growl.

“You. Lead. Men.” He punctuated each word with a small shake. A horrible parody of a smile, misshapen and ugly crossed his face. “I. Kill. Heroes.” Stella readied herself to jump in, but her worries were unfounded. 

The Commander, having gone still for the slightest of moments, burst into action. He dipped a hand into his cloak, before tossing a fine powder of some sort into the monster's eyes. While the Black Knight roared in pain, he brought up a small dagger and jammed it into the Praesi’s wrist. The monster’s grip finally loosened enough for him to wriggle free, but not before delivering a roundhouse kick directly to his opponent's face. 

The Apprentice turned her attention back to her own opponent. All they had to do was survive. Keep the fight going for as long as they could, until the White Knight could avenge their deaths.

The Dread Emperor strolled over to the mass of splinters and debris that the Warlock was struggling to extricate herself from. The villain glanced over at Stella and winked, before calling out in a loud and strident voice:

“My dear Warlock, it looks like you’re in a dash of trouble.” The sorcerer ignored him, vaporizing the larger chunks of wood that had landed on her. The man pulled something out of his cloak. “I would be happy to lend a hand.” 

He tossed the object at the struggling woman. The Apprentice traced its path through the air. It hit the Warlock in the face with a wet sounding slap, before flopping off to land wetly on the rubble. As it came to a stop, she finally realized what it was. A severed hand, still shining with the blood of its previous owner. The Dread Emperor preened like a cat at her look. 

Stella couldn’t wait until she had the chance to kill that man.

The Warlock had finally finished extracting herself from the ruins of the house that she’d been tossed into. She looked furious, her robes askew and limping slightly. At her side were a pair of hissing serpents of shadow, coiling around her legs and arms. 

Stella hoped that these beasts wouldn’t be as tough as the hellhounds the Warlock had summoned earlier in the fight. She’d had to overcharge the necklace she’d stolen from the Count of Frigid Glaciers to keep them from tearing her a new throat. She had gained much from her time in Arcadia, but this fight was causing her to blow through many of the artifacts she had kept for a rainy day. But the cost would be worth it, if the villains would be stopped today.

The sorcerer screamed a command in the Praesi tongue, and the two shades leaped off of her and raced towards the Apprentice. She kept her fingers loose as she analyzed the approaching threats. Their dark appearance meant they likely had aspects of cloaking and shadow. If those were their primary aspects, then being exposed to their opposing aspects would destroy them, which in this case were sunlight and brightness. Unfortunately, at this time of night the only light came from the moon and the stars, which didn’t have the necessary strength of aspect to obliterate creatures with aspects of darkness. 

They didn’t have that peculiar smell that characterized devils, and even a Praesi wouldn’t be as mad as to wear a demon. That meant that these were likely creations of the mad Warlock in front of her, which didn’t bode well. 

She traced a small rune of light into the air, which caused the serpents to split and attack from different directions. One slammed into a hastily put up pane of force, but the other veered around it and lunged for her throat. A second hasty rune of sunlight right in its path caused it to dissolve, but the second one had finangled its way around the pane with startling quickness and came for her tendons. A third rune of sunlight put paid to that attempt, but Stella found herself breathing heavily from the effort of creating so many runes in such a short time frame. 

A small hissing noise was her only warning. Jolting backward on a half-felt sense of danger, a black mass shot right past her throat. The mass fell to the ground, before reconstituting into a snake. It hissed at her, and slithered into the darkness, easily blending in with the shadows.

Stella swore. 

Apparently, the light runes weren’t strong enough to destroy the serpents. Without the use of runes, the most likely way to destroy these things was an artifact. But these constructs were too quick to give her any time to charge one up. She’d have to hit both of them with a rune at the same time, and then use that small period where they were rematerializing to power her artifact. But no matter where she searched, she couldn’t catch sight of the snakes.

For all that it seemed that the snakes had run away in the darkness, there was a constant alarm blaring in the back of her mind, instincts warning her that a second’s inattention would result in death. 

Slowly turning, she focused only on her surroundings, waiting for the tiniest hint of movement. She glanced up at the Warlock to make sure she wasn’t taking advantage of her focus, and that was when they struck. From exact opposite sides, the serpents came straight for her throat. Whirling, Stella attempted to draw a rune with each hand. One flared to life, but the growing exhaustion took its toll, and her left finger swiped when it should have slid, and the rune fizzled out. Panic slowed the world, as one serpent dissipated in concentrated light, while the other latched onto her outstretched hand and sunk its fangs deep into her skin, pumping poison deep into her body. 

She’d barely had time to scream, before an arrow from nowhere tore the construct from her hand and into smoke. Pushing past the pain, she fumbled for a pair of dice. The toxin thrummed in her hand, making every move seem clumsy and spastic. Why had she kept this artifact in her left pouch? Her hand closed around a smooth and polished surface.

Unbidden memories rose up. A long velvet table, with chips stacked high. A smirking Fae, going through the same routine every roll. Trickery and bait, intertwined, that intoxicating cocktail that no Fae could resist. The despair on its face when it realized it had lost to a mortal toy. As the toxin ate into her hand, Stella withdrew the personal trinket of the Prince of Burning Embers. Pressing the pair of snake eyes into her hand, a white hot spark flashed out and burnt the corruption out. Her hand still felt weak, but it didn’t feel like it was slowly being eaten away anymore.

Around her, the shadows twisted and churned, the Warlock no longer content to stay back and watch. But Stella ignored it, pouring power into the artifact until an invisible limit was reached and the dice started to tremble. The wind rose up around her, buffeting her skin and whipping at her eyes. With strength, she didn’t know she had, the Apprentice tossed the trinket high into the air. 

The bladed shadows carved through the night to cut her, rend her into tiny pieces. The Apprentice ignored them, eyes on the dice high above. They reached an apex, and hung in the air for an eternal second. Then the symbol of the Prince of Burning Ember’s favor exploded, and the world was drowned in flame. 

The shadows were wiped out, and any remnants of those constructs were destroyed. Stella slowly traced a rune of flow, tired, but ready to continue the fight. It lit up, and the fires started to whirl around her. She was defended for now, but she could already see the flames starting to die out. The young magician looked at the Warlock, and saw that she had completed the circle she had started earlier, and was already starting another incantation. She looked at the Black Knight, and saw that he was launching spear after spear at the desperately evading Commander. 

This fight was not working. They were stalling, but could they stall for long enough? Something needed to change. The Dread Emperor cut in once more.

“I see that your insignificance in the face of Praesi might has finally set in. The Warlock is simply better than you in magic. Her necklace allows her to protect herself from any opponent.” He nodded to where the Commander was blown away by an exploding spear. “As for the Commander, he was doomed the moment that he faced the Black Knight during the night. His only weakness is the sun, and he is completely invincible during the night.” The arrogance practically wafted off of him. “Our victory is assured.” He proclaimed, his grin sharp enough to rend flesh. 

Stella ignored him, letting no hint of her true thoughts show on her face. The pathological need to gloat, the weakness of mortals and Fae alike. He had just handed her the keys to victory.

First, she needed to talk with the Commander. Her defense was dying out, and the Deoraithe man was constantly pressured by the Black Knight. She might as well solve two problems at once. 

**Sustain** , she ordered the flames, and they roared back to life, feeding on her Name and will. A small motion of her hand, and they raced towards the Black Knight. The monster barely had the time to turn, before the fire slammed into him like the vengeful hand of a god, tossing him into the nearby lake. A second motion left them to rush at the Warlock. Abandoning her incantation, the Praesi sorcerer grabbed her necklace and raised a sheet of protection to keep from burning alive. Releasing the fire from her control, she ran towards the Commander. 

The man looked battered, a series of ugly bruises rising on his throat and face. Despite that, he continued to stand tall, addressing her as she came closer. “You need to be more careful. If I hadn’t been keeping an eye out, I wouldn’t have been able to hit that snake.” She forced a smile and a nod in thanks, but tried to think of the best way to word her plan.

“You, me, switch…” She tried to think of the word for opponent. “Villains.” Close enough.

The man looked at her askance. 

“You sure about that?” She nodded. Stella just needed to let him know what Traitorous had accidentally revealed.

“Weakness is… jewelry.” She tapped her neck, unsure if she’d gotten the right word. The Commander cast a look at where the Warlock was currently containing the bonfire raging around her, gripping her necklace tightly. 

“I’ll see if I can snatch it. Fight well, Apprentice.” He sprinted towards the villain, and Stella turned to face her new foe. 

The Black Knight dredged himself from the murky waters, dripping wet and fury in every feature. She had a plan to deal with him, but it needed time to be prepared. She was tired, most of her energy had been spent in her mage’s duel, and out of many of her artifacts. That just meant that she’d have to be tricky. 

“Run.” The behemoth of a creature rumbled out. “Or. Die.” She calmly regarded the villain, a slight frown on her face. A beast, capable of brute force and nothing else. She still remembered the lessons of her youth in the hunting of such beasts. 

First, confuse and exhaust it. 

The monster in front of her, having delivered its threat, charged. In a fraction of a second, he reached her, and swung his spear with enough force to crack the pavement. The attack burst the illusion she had used into a flurry of snowflakes, as she appeared several yards to the left of the villain. Idly, she placed a glass ball back into her pouch, its charge spent, and illusion destroyed. She put the finishing touches on a rune of frost, and a blizzard roared up out of the snowflakes. 

The Black Knight loomed large in the deluge of snow. He swung his heavy head side to side, nostrils flaring as he searched for his prey in the storm. Seeing the simple solution, the beast in human form simply charged forward, banking on escaping the spell with pure speed. 

The Apprentice exhaled sharply. She had been trapped in too many winter storms to not have learned how to control them. It was a simple matter to make the spell follow the behemoth, and keep him trapped in what seemed to be an unending storm. She gave it a steady trickle of magic, and put it out of her mind.

The second step was to set a trap. 

It would take her greatest artifact to have a chance of defeating the Black Knight, but she had to set it up first. Or rather, she had to dismiss the protections around it before she could use it. With numb fingers, she withdrew a small velvet box from a pouch on her waist. Was it her imagination, or was the box shaking slightly? On another night, she’d have panicked at the idea that her wardings were failing, but the idea almost brought a smile to her face. The sooner the artifact was out, the sooner this battle could end. 

Holding the box at eye level, the first set of runes that she had to dismiss was a string of intertwined insignificance and absence. Considering that no one had come after her for the contents of the box, she felt that that part of the wards had worked fairly well. 

The next part-

A loud explosion interrupted her train of thought. Looking up to find its source, Stella saw a second spear of darkness fly out of the storm, quickly followed by a third, both in different directions. She swore, as explosions started to sound out, the Black Knight having grown tired of running in place and choosing to try and destroy his opponent through sheer density of destruction. The Apprentice saw a storefront blasted into rubble with a single spear, and resolved to open the box as quickly as possible. 

As long as those spears continued to be thrown randomly, she felt confident that she’d be able to ready her trap. She looked down at the box, and prepared to disable the second set of wards. Just like she had disabled that set of wards that kept the volatile contents from screaming out their location to anyone paying attention. There was a pause in the flow of exploding spears, as Stella realized what she had done. She barely had the time to jerk the box in front of her before a spear hit her and Creation turned into a mishmash of noise and blurs.

The Apprentice was blown backwards, limbs scraping against the cobblestones as the world turned in a mad scramble of lights and sounds. Eventually she found herself face down on the ground, staring at nothing, every part of her body groaning in pain. Fumbling, she felt for wounds, noting with a sense of horror that her artifact pouches had been blown away. Honored Gods, she was tired.

It took all of her strength to lift her head up. Lying on the ground ahead of her was the contents of the box, a pure white handkerchief wrapped around a small, softly shining ball. 

She had to get to it. She was weaponless, tired, and out of options. Inch by struggling inch, she dragged herself towards salvation. The ringing in her ears made the thumping of Black Knight’s approach seem like the Last Twilight’s coming. She was so close to the artifact, just a few more inches, when a massive foot caught her side and sent her tumbling away. 

The pain in her stomach outstripped everything now. Her head spun once more. She retched, the morning’s light breakfast coming up. Unfocused, her eyes stared up into the midnight sky. A shadow passed over her vision, and she saw that death had come for her. An enormous hand grasped her by the throat, and she was shaken back into reality. The Black Knight lifted her up with a single hand, slowly choking the life out of her. His face was set in a scowl, anger and hatred intertwined. 

“Weak.” He condemned her. 

Anger flushed through her. Who was this villain to dismiss her efforts? She had cut her way into the depths of the Brocelian as a child, grown up amidst the razor games of the Court, and bargained for her freedom having gained more than she had lost. She would not fall to some Praesi fuckwit villain. 

And there, in the corner of her eye, was her chance. A luminous orb, flickering fiercely in the dark, sitting proudly on a snow white handkerchief. Broken free of its chains, and ignored by the Black Knight. She looked the villain in his eyes.

“ **Grow** .” She rebutted. And with her aspect, that stolen shard of the Summer Sun burned brightly enough to turn night to day. 

The Black Knight let out a horrifying roar, dropping her and recoiling from the sun brought to life an arms length away from him. Stella saw him starting to disintegrate, flakes falling off in the cleansing light of day. Hope rushed through her. Pain forgotten, she turned to check on the Commander and saw him springing backwards from the Praesi sorceress, jeweled necklace in hand.

The next moment everything came crashing down. 

“ **Extinguish** .” The monster grumbled out. 

For a moment the two aspects clashed, hero and villain fighting in a way that was both metaphorical and excruciatingly real. Then, the overwhelming power of the Black Knight asserted itself. No transitory Name could hope to match up to a villain in the fullness of his might, cloaked in power and bathed in blood. 

The stolen sun winked out, smothered in the dark. As the Apprentice watched, the Warlock cast out with a whip, cutting deep into Commander's chest. Blood anointed the night sky, and the man fell to the ground. 

Stella ran for her companion, fear coursing through her veins. Sliding to a stop before the Commander, she desperately put pressure on the wound, trying to stop the gushing. Teeth grit, the Commander only let out a grunt as her fingers slipped and landed on exposed bone. 

“Here.” The Commander grit out, motioning his head to the necklace he still held in his left hand. She took the necklace, distantly noting the power that thrummed inside it.

“Can’t heal.” She confessed to the man. She was adept at healing bruises and cuts, due to the practice living under the “care” of the Fae gave her. But a wound of this magnitude was beyond her.

“Then cauterize it.” He forced out. She searched his eyes, and only found steel clad determination. She drew the first rune she’d ever learned on her palm, and a steady flickering of flame grew. She pressed it against his flesh.

This time, the Commander couldn’t hold back his screams. 

Once the grisly work was done, the Commander let out a sharp exhale. The widening of his eyes was all the warning she needed. Tapping into the power trapped in the Warlock’s necklace, a bubble of force sprung up around them, just in time to catch an earth-shattering blow from the Black Knight. The powerful hits continued, and a whirlwind of shadows started to strike at every exposed inch of the force-field. 

The Apprentice and the Commander huddled together under their shelter, hope dwindling. Slowly, but with increasing frequency, the shield started to flicker as it was overwhelmed by the Praesi attacks. It looked like they were about to die. 

A powerful voice rang out.

“ **Halt** .”

All of the attacks on them ceased immediately. A vicious grin split the Commander’s face, and Stella felt herself mirror it. 

Finally, the White Knight had arrived.


	9. Chapter 9

The aspect rang out across the ruined square. Traitorous looked upon the man who was the domain of the Hashmallim, and grinned. The dice had been cast and all that was left was where they’d fall. He tried to move forward and greet the hero, but his body refused to obey his command. 

Interesting. He hadn’t even been the focus of that aspect, and it had still managed to completely stop him. It was a far cry from the last time they had fought, when it was more of a shock to the system, than a complete paralysis. 

That wasn’t the only difference from the last time they had met. When Traitorous had fled, screaming curses and that “ _ They hadn’t seen the last of him _ ” the White Knight had stood proud, seemingly in his prime. Yet now that closely trimmed black beard of his was now flecked with grey, and his hair was shot with streaks of white. It seemed that age was finally taking its toll on him. Additionally, the pupils of his eyes were now a startling white. The Hashmallim had most likely been summoned into him, horse and rider both. And finally there was that tiny matter of the fifteen foot tall wings of flame extending from his back. It was a slight hint that the summoning might have empowered the White Knight slightly.

The two battered heroes unshielded themselves, and limped to the side of the White Knight. Once they were safely behind him, the hero finally focused on the villains opposing him. The Black Knight tore himself free, and summoned a spear to his hands. The Warlock backed up, refraining from any incantations for the moment. Traitorous finally felt his bonds loosen. Time for the finishing touches, he thought. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet again, White Knight!” He called out. The man in question scrutinized him. 

“My companions and I came to pay our well wishes, but were informed that you were busy. Fortunately, your friends were kind enough to…” He gestured to the burning and collapsing buildings around them. 

“Entertain us.” 

The White Knight gave no visible reaction besides a slight stiffening. His face was like a porcelain mask. 

_ And now _ , Traitorous thought,  _ the Black Knight will grow impatient. _

Right on time, the monster let loose with a growl before rushing towards the hero. They met in a clash that sent a shockwave into the air, stoking the nearby fires. Traitorous scrutinized the pair. The White Knight’s next action would set the tone for the rest of the battle. 

The villains had swaggered in and caused ruin and destruction. The defending heroes had held them off bravely, but were fighting a losing battle. In their moment of greatest need, a savior had appeared. And now, that savior would triumph over the powerful enemies. The only question was: what would that triumph be? Would it be to escape with his companions safe and secure? To slaughter the villains that had opposed them? Or that greatest of victories, to turn his enemies into allies?

The Black and White Knights stood in a deadlock, the hero’s unearthly companion lending him strength far in the excess of what he once had. The Black Knight growled, infuriated by his unparalleled might finally being matched. An aspect thrummed through the air, and the Black Knight was sent tumbling backwards. 

Traitorous did his best to keep the confusion from his face. As far as he knew, the White Knight didn’t have any offensive aspects. Then how..?

The Black Knight lay crumpled on the ground motionless. A strange whuffling sound emanated from his curled up body. 

Traitorous had never heard the man make that sound before. The realization hit him like a strike of lightning from Above. The Black Knight was weeping. Traitorous kept his confident smirk from changing to reflect the sudden surge of mania that burst through his veins. He had guessed correctly. 

_ Next _ , he thought,  _ the Warlock will attempt to flee _ .

The woman in question spoke an indecipherable word, calling a horse-shaped typhoon of winds underneath her. Rising into the air, she paused to sneer down at the Emperor. 

“You absolute fucking failure. If you hadn’t kept delaying us then I could have controlled the angel. Enjoy your defeat, you fuckwit.” Traitorous simply continued to grin at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the White Knight point his sword at the sorceress. She started to rise into the air, her mount’s hooves pounding on nothing but carrying her up anyway. 

That same aspect filled the air once more, and a beam of fire shot from the hero’s sword, piercing through the villain’s chest. The woman let out a blood-curdling screech, and fell from her mount. She hit the ground with a dull thump. Traitorous felt concerned for a moment as he examined the apparently dead woman. Had he misread the effects of the aspect? The Warlock let out a sudden cry, covering her face and curling up into a ball, exposing her back, unwounded from the attack generated from the aspect. 

The proud villain writhed on the ground, moaning and sobbing. When he pricked his ears, he could make out the mantra she was chanting in between sobs. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I repent. I’m sorry…”

She sounded like someone who’d had a run-in with an Angel of Contrition, in the exact same manner that he expected the Black Knight had. In just a little bit, Traitorous would either be joining them, or something…  _ unprecedented _ would happen.

With the distractions taken care of, the White Knight turned to face Traitorous. The rivals faced each other, across an open square surrounded by flames and destruction. The dark skinned man blended in with the night, his black cloak making him seem more shadow than man, the flickering flames causing him to seem a phantom in plain view. The Callowan’s plate armor shined, reflecting the wings at his back and bringing light to the darkness. Traitorous broke the silence first.

“Your underlings were excellent at their jobs, you know. They served as wonderful distractions for my unfortunate companions.” Traitorous let out a put-upon sigh. 

“If only we could have settled this peacefully, without this terrible destruction.” Despite his carefree facade, Traitorous kept a close eye on his rival’s face. His fellow villains had fallen, his army was either dead or fled from the city, and the man had a victory ordained. If the hero decided to kill him, there was nothing that Traitorous could do to stop him. Everything rested on convincing the hero that he could be redeemed. The hero broke his silence.

“Surrender, Dread Emperor. You’ve failed.” Traitorous considered the man’s words. What was the best way to respond?

“Why would I?” The two of them started to circle, the predator searching for weakness in the protector. “Look at your city. Look at the corpses at the gates. Look at your brutalized allies. Only one of us has failed in their duties today. I wonder how else you’ll fail.” 

The White Knight visibly twitched at the last sentence. Traitorous pounced on the weakness. 

“It’s not really your fault, you know.” The villain began, voice sweet as arsenic. 

“You just were never cut out to be a hero in the first place. How could a man who murdered his own brother ever be a hero?”

The words seemed to paradoxically steady the hero. He let out a slow breath, his sword rising to a ready position.

“You are  _ tainted _ , White.” Traitorous’s voice started to rise, unable to stop himself from being swept away in the anticipation. 

“You corrupt the spirit of Callow every time you wield your sword in its name. You think that false remorse will absolve your sins?” He was yelling, Traitorous faintly realized. 

“Your mockeries of repentance are a greater sin than anything I have  _ ever _ committed.”

The White Knight locked gazes with Traitorous. The pity in his eyes scorched the villain greater than any amount of fire could. Out of breath and panting, Traitorous fell silent. The White Knight’s response was a single word.

**Commune** .

The aspect rang out for the third time that night, and the world seemed to shatter. The ground crumbled beneath his feet, and Traitorous fell into nothingness. 

As he fell, a grin spread across his face. Finally.

It was time to meet with the Hashmallim.


	10. Chapter 10

Traitorous opened his eyes, not remembering ever closing them. The scene around him had changed.

Liesse was nowhere to be seen, and instead what greeted his eyes was a scene from the past. Traitorous breathed in the chilly desert night air as he looked towards the Tower of Praes from the roof of a ramshackle hut. He warmed his hands at the fire in front of him that mainly consisted of blacked coals and a few shards of broken furniture. He sat down on his broken chair, careful to not put his weight on the side with the shattered leg. Humming an old tune, he reached into the pot at his side and scraped its insides for any food left to be found. Just as he had done a thousand times before. He withdrew a particularly battered apple and started to feast. 

His eyes fell on the bundle of rocks melted together opposite him that a particularly young and proud mage might have called a chair. Traitorous expected to feel nostalgic, or angry, or even ashamed. But mostly, he just felt… weary. A bone-deep tiredness that asked him “Why?” He made to pull his cloak tighter around him, but found the mantle that he had worn since he had first taken power had left him in the process of whatever the aspect had done to him.

The sound of creaking and footsteps brought him out of his fugue. Carefully balancing on the rickety steps leading up to the roof, the White Knight slowly approached him. The man’s appearance had changed, no longer bearing the signs of the Hashmallim riding his body. The older man had lost the plate somewhere as well, wearing a simple grey long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of riding trousers. The hero stopped a few paces before Traitorous.

“I ask for the shelter of your fire, traveler.” The White Knight said, posture calm. Traitorous wondered where he had learned of that old ritual.

“Granted.” Traitorous returned, agreeing to the custom to refrain from violence until dawn. He considered attempting to draw out their talks until daybreak, but it was best not to settle on a plan until he had more information. “Come and have a seat, White Knight. It's about time that we had a talk.”

The hero joined Traitorous in the seat across the fire. Traitorous expected to feel his Name howl at even the impression that Traitorous would not immediately go for the hero’s throat. It remained silent, and worryingly distant. He attempted to quietly summon the dagger that represented it to his side, and found his hand closing only on a few wisps of smoke. Concerning. Best not to force it until he knew more about what was happening.

“No need to call me White Knight. David will do fine.” The man joined Traitorous in warming his hands by the fire. Traitorous grinned. 

“Then let's not stand on formality. Call me Traitorous. I apologize for being a poor host, but I’m afraid you’ve found me in rather low circumstances.” He tossed the pot that contained everything that the boy he’d once been had managed to scrape together for the day's meals to David. 

“Take whatever you’d like. It may not be palatable, but at least it isn’t poisoned.” He remarked to the man with a grin. The man inclined his head in thanks. He withdrew half a blackened end of bread, and set the pot by his side. They ate in quiet tension for a few minutes, each man observing the other. 

Traitorous had skimmed the man years ago, and what he’d found there had repulsed him. Most of the man’s impact on Creation was hidden by the concealing wings of Contrition, but he had managed to uncover the incident that caused the man to swear himself to Above. The man had murdered his brother over a woman, and lived with her for years before he decided to become “contrite”. The presumption of a man deciding to commit fratricide and reap its rewards for several years, and then let his sins be washed away and become a hero? A true villain embraced their sins, they didn’t run from them. But heroes, they were a different breed. 

Most heroes were worthy of recognition, because to become Named was to have an ambition that would not be obstructed. But those that had dipped their toes in darker waters and then fled in fear were only worthy of disdain. Their only grounds for being Named was timidity, and a lack of willingness to truly express themselves. But despite Traitorous’s personal disdain for the White Knight, the man currently held every advantage. It remained to be seen what the Callowan would do. 

The hero in question finished his meal and leaned back on the uncomfortable bundle of rocks. Traitorous set his half-eaten apple on the ground. It looked like it was time to start this little tête-à-tête.

“You prefer Traitorous to your given name?” David questioned. Traitorous smiled.

“When I became Dread Emperor I cast aside who I was before. Why would I ever want to be that person again?” The man shifted to look at the night skyline, the city silent in the dead of night.

“Do you mind telling me where this place is?” Traitorous let out a hum. So the White Knight didn’t have full control over his aspect? Or was this simply an attempt to get him to open up? Best to play it cautiously.

“While I do have some ideas about the surroundings, I believe that we’re actually still in Liesse.” Traitorous probed.

The Callowan looked thoughtful. 

“I suppose that is technically true.” Focusing back on the villain opposing him, the man returned to his original point. 

“My aspect allows me to… connect with whoever I use it on. We share a sort of... dream, pulling parts of it from each of our souls to make us both comfortable.” The hero motioned upwards. “Those stars are the same as those over my hometown.”

Traitorous glanced upwards. He’d take the hero’s word for it. In any case, that sounded rather like a domain. If the hero had any control over it at all, it would be simple to prevent daybreak from ever occurring. And if Traitorous struck while still bound by tradition to refrain from violence until dawn, no amount of trickery would save him from the wrath the story would visit upon him. He reluctantly felt a sliver of admiration at the guile of the hero to extract a truce that he controlled how long it lasted. 

Focusing back on the hero, he supposed he ought to answer him. Would his aspect let him detect lies? In a space connected to both their souls, lies would definitely be risky. The only thing to do was to test it. 

“It’s where I commited my first murder. There was an older couple here that had recently come into some money. I broke in to find out if the rumors were true, and when they found me I panicked and killed them. Something of an inauspicious start, but I feel I've gotten better at murdering since then.” 

The White Knight simply raised an eyebrow in response. Hm. Best to show at least some indications of cooperativeness, Traitorous thought.

“It’s where my brother and I lived before we were both Named.” Now, the question was whether he would push for more information or just move on. 

The Callowan simply nodded in acceptance, before letting out a sigh.

“If I asked you to repent for your sins, you’d laugh in my face, wouldn’t you?” Traitorous put a mock look of seriousness on his face.

“Oh, I would _never_ be so gauche. Please David, command me to denounce my actions and swear to turn over a new leaf.” The White Knight looked away, as if reminiscing.

“While the Hashmallim can show people the consequences of their actions, you would resist it however you could, wouldn’t you.” On this assertion, Traitorous remained silent, only widening his grin to show more teeth.

“You know that I want you to be redeemed, and won’t rest until you have repented.” The statement of the White Knight left no room for uncertainty. 

“And you will never be contrite unless you want to be.” The White Knight leaned forward to look the Dread Emperor in the eyes. 

“So speak to me. Persuade me that you will never turn to Good. And then I will show you that even then, there is still salvation for you.”

Traitorous kept his easy grin on his face. He’d been expecting to go straight to an encounter with an angel of Contrition, but he could work with this. He simply needed to convince the hero that the best way to redeem him was to introduce him to the Hashmallim. It was time to do what he did best. Twist the truth and manipulate his opponent. 

“I could regale you with the lives I’ve personally ruined, the harm that I’ve caused, or even just the way that no hero would welcome the villain that had personally murdered multiple of them. Instead I’ll simply tell you a story.” He leaned forward in his broken chair. “Have you ever heard the story of the scorpion and the frog?”

The Callowan nodded.

“It’s fairly well known in Callow.” He answered. Traitorous smiled.

“Would you mind telling me? I’m curious if the stories are the same.”

The White Knight looked dubious, but complied, reciting the old story in that sing-song tone of reminiscence. 

“Two creatures found themselves on one side of a river, a scorpion and a frog. The scorpion asked the frog to help him across the river. The frog refuses, saying that this is a trick so that the scorpion can kill him. The scorpion responds that his family is on the other side, and killing the frog would strand him on this side, and asks the frog again. The frog refuses again, stating that he is afraid that the scorpion will kill him while he is swimming across. The scorpion says that killing the frog would just doom him as well, so the frog has nothing to fear, and asks him a third time. The frog refuses a last time, stating the scorpion will kill him once he is safely across. The scorpion assures him that the gratitude he feels to the frog will keep him from killing him, and asks him once more. The frog finally agrees.”

The hero paused his story to take a deep breath. The tale had been mostly the same as the one Traitorous had heard growing up, except for the scorpion promising a reward instead of wanting to see his family. But the ending was the point that Traitorous was trying to prove.

“The scorpion gets on the frog’s back.” David continued, an unhappy expression on his face. “In the middle of the river, the scorpion fatally stings the frog. As they both begin to sink into the water, the frog askes the scorpion why he would do such a thing.” He spit out the finishing lines of the story with a sour look on his face.

“The scorpion replies he could not help himself. It was his nature. They both drown, twin victims of the scorpion.” David stared into Traitorous’s eyes. 

“You cannot truly believe that you can’t change your nature.” He seemed to plead with the villain to understand. A change suddenly came over the man, his shoulders straightening as he touched into some deeper part of himself.

“Everyone can change. Everyone can grow. Everyone can become better.” The White Knight declared. Traitorous grinned.

“An interesting premise. But not exactly what I was going for.” He nodded towards the great sentinel of black stone that almost blended in with the night sky. The Tower of Praes was noticeable from everywhere in Ater. 

“You see, they tell it a little differently here in the East.”

Traitorous carefully settled back into the chair, absentmindedly keeping his weight off of its broken leg. “The beginning is the same, but after the scorpion stings the frog, he survives. The frog drowns in a watery grave, and the scorpion swims to the other side on his own.” He smirked a terrible, bitter smile at the other man. 

“For you see, the fault was not in the scorpion for killing the frog, but in the frog for agreeing to help when he was helpless.” The hero looked pained. 

“To be Good is simply to be vulnerable. To be Good is to be weak. To be Good is to die.”

Something in Traitorous’s words had stung the hero, judging from the flicker of anger that crossed it.

“I know that you don’t believe heroes are weak. We’ve managed to stop this invasion with only three of us.” The White Knight began, tone slightly irritated. “We’re not vulnerable, not anymore than you are just by living. And no one can keep from dying. Not even villains.”

“Oh, but in a way, we villains are immortal.” Traitorous shot back. “Every time we destroy a city, or lay waste to an army, we forever scar Creation in our image.”

“Yet the same can be said of heroes, every life saved and mercy offered starting a chain of good deeds that will never end.” David heatedly responded. 

Traitorous grinned. It had been too long since he’d last had a proper morality debate. 

“So you admit that to truly matter, one has to be Named. But if those that aren’t Named don’t matter, then why should we cater to them?” The White Knight looked frustrated.

“Just because a person is not eternally remembered does not mean that they are worthless. Every person is worth the same, no more no less.” Traitorous jumped on the opening.

“If every person has the same value, then that’s practically the same thing as every person being worth nothing. The only way to truly have value is to stand out from the scavengers and victims.” Traitorous let his amusement show through on his face.

Ultimately, none of this mattered. He just had to lead the hero in enough logical circles and fallacies to frustrate and anger him enough to cause him to call upon the Hashmallim. And it looked as if the man would only need a few more pushes to call his sworn master in for a swing. 

“That is…” David trailed off as he tried to find the words to describe how exactly Traitorous was wrong. “You can’t…” He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for several moments. When he opened them, his pupils had changed back to the pure white that indicated an Angel of Contrition was peeking out from behind them. 

“I have a question for you, Traitorous.” The White Knight called out, his voice ringing with the slightest hints of otherworldly power. 

“Why? Why have you brought ruin to Creation? Why did you become who you are?”

Traitorous felt a shiver run up his spine. It would be playing with fire to continue the petty distractions at this point. Luckily, he had plenty of experience in playing with worse things. First, a half-truth, to see if it could be sniffed out.

“To see my enemies broken before me.” He replied, carefully eyeing the White Knight. The hero snorted. 

“No.” The hero’s eyes burned brighter. “Do not lie to me Dread Emperor.” Traitorous took the admonition in stride. 

The best way to throw the hero off of his line of questioning was to answer what he had asked, not what he wanted to know. The White Knight had asked for his reasons, but instead he would reveal his past. After all, what villain wouldn’t seize such a chance to reveal their tragic past?

It was time for that old domain of villains.

A monologue.

“When I was younger, my brother and I were city rats scrabbling for food in the gutters.” Traitorous began, motioning to the surroundings. 

“He discovered his knack for magic, and I discovered I had a knack for dealing with people. I _persuaded_ our way into magical secrets, he learnt them and made them his own. His powerful sorcery led to more and more mages seeking him out, and those that he didn’t kill in duels I disposed of in other ways. Eventually Feza claimed the Name of Warlock.” Traitorous laughed. 

“Just in time for Vile to unleash his plague and set off the greatest civil war in history.” 

The days following had brought fear to Praes in a way that no Emperor before had. The plague struck seemingly at random, outbursts breaking out in the middle of quarantined areas, with its lethality wildly varying, from being no worse than a flu, to striking down the High Lady of Kantan’s heir despite dozens of sacrifices and the best efforts of highly trained mages. Traitorous had caught it himself, and might have died were it not for Feza tracking down nine untainted sacrifices to ritually distribute the burden. He shook his head and continued his story for the White Knight. 

“Every High Lord and Named in Praes rose in rebellion, my brother included. Vile didn’t even manage to release his second plague before he was dethroned. But that exposed the central flaw of Praes.” Traitorous closed his eyes and let the old flush of hatred, shame, and anger course through his veins. 

“There are innumerable claimants, but only one throne. And no claimant would allow another to take their rightful place.” He focused back on the hero, letting out a grin with far too many teeth. 

“Praes tore itself apart, every faction agreeing on one thing only. If they were not the victor, then no others would be. And that is where I found my calling.” The White Knight’s posture was unchanged, but the sympathy in his eyes only became more and more prominent. Traitorous ignored the indignation that rose within him at the hero’s unbearable pity. The story wasn’t over yet. 

“I set brother against sister, inflamed rivalries, and destroyed alliances. I persuaded Tyrannical to let loose the demon that destroyed Kigalus. I personally murdered Fiendish and framed Covetous for it to prevent the fighting from dying down.” Traitorous took a deep breath. 

“I tore down every person that stood in the way of my brother’s success.” 

It had been the happiest that Traitorous had ever been. Every day was another dance on the edge of a knife, keeping a constantly changing balance of betrayals and alliances so that he and his brother would come out the victor. The rush of victory as another rival fell had been better than any earthly pleasure. He and his brother had murdered their way to claiming the throne, and become the epitome of Praesi ambition. That lovingly tended lie that anyone could rise. 

“Eventually, there were no claimants left. Praes was in ruins, but my brother was content to rule over the scattered remains of our nation. We returned to Ater and ascended the Tower, side by side.” The sheer fucking triumph Traitorous had felt climbing the steps with Feza at his side had never been equaled, two street rats triumphantly returned home as the greatest villains in the land. 

The White Knight looked like he was bracing himself for a blow. Well, the ending of his story was rather easy to deduce. But that didn’t mean that Traitorous wouldn’t relish finally airing out his sins for all to see. 

“We reached the throne. An eternity ago, shivering in the cold, hunger in our bellies, owning only the rags on our backs, we had agreed that Feza would be the Dread Emperor and I would be his Chancellor.” Traitorous’s smile turned slightly wistful. 

“He sat on the throne and proclaimed the beginning of the rule of Dread Emperor Occultus. He commanded his Chancellor to kneel. I felt the Name coalesce around me like a cloak at the order of my Emperor.”

His face still not changing from the slightly wistful smile, Traitorous finished his tale. 

“I murdered my brother, and descended the Tower to proclaim the reign of Dread Emperor Traitorous.”

It was a victory, two orphans overcoming everything in their path. But it was only when his brother’s cooling corpse lay at his feet that he finally felt that elusive feeling. Triumph. Traitorous couldn’t explain why he’d done it.

Part of the blame laid in the years he’d spent with his brother, destroying everything in their path, no matter how old the blood, or mighty the power. How could he ever deign to kneel to anyone, let alone someone that he used to be equal to?

Another part laid in those stories repeated in every corner of Praes, those glorious tales of ambitions fulfilled and daring rewarded. How could any Praesi ever settle for the lesser prize, and still consider themselves a true Praesi?

And the last part of the blame lay in himself. He had shed the same blood that he had protected for over two decades because of simple lust for power. He had weighed his brother and a throne, and found one was lacking.

His true nature was greedy, hateful, and villainous. He was hungry, and he would stop at nothing to sate it. 

“And now what?” David asked, tone inquisitive, no sign of being affected by the terrible story in his voice, playing his role of therapist to the end. 

“What are you doing with this power?”

Traitorous focused himself back on his opponent, berating himself for the slip in attention. He’d gotten caught up in nostalgia and some facsimile of a non judgemental ear. Traitorous let a grin grow on his face. 

“You’ve seen what I’ve done with power. Left my mark on history.”

The White Knight shook his head. 

“You’ve done that, but you’re working towards some terrible purpose. Something that will make everything you’ve done worth it.”

“That sounds like you’re projecting to me. Not feeling absolved of past sins?” Traitorous attacked. The White Knight ignored his barbed words. 

“What is it?” David spoke in a soft voice. 

Traitorous considered his position. His plot to distract the White Knight from his plans had failed. What would revealing his goals do at this point? The White Knight wouldn’t be able to stop them in any meaningful way besides killing him here and now. No, Traitorous realized, that was the wrong way to look at it. What effect would his plans have on the hero’s attempts to redeem him?

The White Knight was trying to force a redemption out of him. That meant that he was looking for any scrap of goodness to be found in the villain, that could be trumpeted as a “moral center”. Traitorous needed to present himself as being devoid of all virtues, so that the hero had no choice but to bring in the Hashmallim to forcefully redeem him. Would revealing his master plan also reveal some spark of virtue?

No, Traitorous considered. It was simply the act of a snake eating its own tail. The only thing his glorious master plan revealed was the depths to which he would sink for that greatest of pursuits. Revenge, bloody and sweet. Revenge against that which had ruined his life.

“For the decade that I’ve ruled, all of my efforts have centered on causing a single scenario to come to pass. The complete and utter ruin of Praes.” 

He paused, examining the hero for any reaction. The White Knight’s face remained blank, yet his eyes seemed to burn with something deeper within. Traitorous continued. 

“Praes has become sickened, with distrust and betrayal venerated, all dilemmas solved with the use of a knife, and worst of all, it allowed someone like me to become its ruler. It teaches its children that power solves everything, and that one can only rise with the fall of another.” Traitorous grinned, bloody and hungry. 

“It offends me, so I will tear it to the ground.” 

He could almost taste the ruin in the air. 

“And I am a knife’s edge from accomplishing it.” 

Traitorous stared down the hero, daring him to condemn this plan of blood and death. “Does that answer your question, White Knight?”

The White Knight had listened to his ranting in silence, a doctor calmly diagnosing a cripple, if not in body than in spirit. Traitorous wondered how he would respond. Pity? Rage? A sermon on how only by turning to Good would his soul be saved?

“My brother and I were inseparable when we grew up.” The White Knight began.

Ah. An origin story. And people complained that villains were too quick to monologue. Well, the hero had listened to his own story. He might as well return the favor.

“He always used to trail after me when he was younger, but as we got older, nobody could tell the difference between us. We ate together, played together, and fought together. Our mother ran a moderately successful horse tearing business, and once we were of age, my brother and I traveled between different villages, as there was always a need for more horses. And that was how we met Emma.”

“Emma was a beautiful woman, strong-willed, and could charm a man dying in the desert to give up his last drink of water.” David continued, a wistful look on his face. Traitorous worked to keep the boredom off of his face. Was the man just going to brag? 

“My brother and I competed over who could bring back the most impressive gifts and stories from our travels, and we competed in mostly good humor.” David smiled. “It was the happiest time of my life. Young, proud, and in love.”

The smile disappeared from his face, washed away by the memories.

“But she only chose one of us, and it was my younger brother.”

The hero continued his speech, tone light as if he was discussing simple gossip instead of the horrific start to his heroic career. 

“I lied to myself, and to him, when I told him that I was happy for his success, and I wished them well. My brother and I drifted apart after that, and I threw myself into the family business. There were always more towns to reach out to, more customers to find. A year passed. Maybe two. It was easier to lose myself in work, than to focus on the loss of the love of my life. Eventually, I even convinced myself that I was satisfied. And then my brother asked me to join him on a trip to see Emma for old times sake.” David closed his eyes, lost in the past.

Traitorous attempted to keep his former inattention off of his face. How many other people knew of the White Knight’s past? A dozen? But in the end, it would just be another dark and bloody secret that Traitorous had learned. Now, how exactly would this hero dress up fratricide? Maybe a shade of the “Greater Good”, or even that old heroic rallying cry, that “they deserved it.”

“He told me the good news. Emma was with child. And he was going to propose to her.” David breathed out slowly, the story coming in stops and starts. “I murdered him. Because I was jealous.” The hero’s voice shook slightly. “Because I was angry. Because I am a deplorable person.” He hissed out. 

David shook his head, mastering his emotions before continuing. “I let loose all our horses, and blamed his death on bandits. I gave Emma the terrible news, and comforted her in her grief. A few days later, the army swept through that forest and found that there were actually bandits there.”

The White Knight let out a bitter laugh. 

“And so my lies went unquestioned.”

Traitorous carefully studied the man across from him. If one replaced the woman with power, his story could have applied to many in Praes. Yet in Callow, apparently that was grounds to make one a hero. 

“And so I took care of my brother’s widow, and was praised for it. Emma gave birth to a beautiful baby a few months later. He looked so much like the both of us that I could almost pretend he was our child, and not my brother’s. She named him Charles, after him.”

The hero finally seemed to remember the villain across from him. He locked eyes with the mad emperor of the West.

“Do you know what finally brought me to my senses? It wasn’t when we held a funeral for my brother. It wasn’t when Emma asked me to be her husband. It wasn’t even when we learned that we would have a second child.”

In his heart, the White Knight implored the Dread Emperor to understand. To emphasize. To realize the point he was driving to.

“It was when my brother’s son said his first word. Papa. I realized that I had stolen this boy’s true father from him.”

Traitorous let his disdain show. Petty moralizing held no place in the teachings of the Wasteland. There were a thousand sob stories hidden in the sands of Praes, and he had learned to ignore all of them. The White Knight pushed past his companion’s sudden worsening of mood.

“I confessed to Emma then and there of my sins.” The White Knight intoned solemnly. “She told me to leave. So I left. I left her house. I left her village. I left to go kill myself.”

The Dread Emperor listened attentively as the hero recounted his sorrowful past, not bothering to keep the disgust off of his face. While his former peers might have considered suicide a suitable end when outplayed, the notion had always been anathema to Traitorous. The idea of just giving up would invalidate every desperate prayer, every fervent plea to find enough food to survive, to not freeze in the night. 

“And so I found myself looking into a river, staring at my own reflection, searching for any reason at all to continue living. And it was there that the Hashmallim found me. They rose from underneath the surface, and I wept.”

The hero paused, a full body flinch tearing through his body at the memory. 

“They knew everything that I had done. Every sin I had committed. And they showed me them, again and again. I begged for them to kill me. They told me to redeem myself.” 

The White Knight’s eyes flashed a bright white, and Traitorous could almost see the angels peeking out from within. 

“And so I picked up a sword, and swore myself to righting wrongs.”

Traitorous felt it in the air. Now was the tipping point. The hero would force a redemption, and he would twist it to face the angels that rode this man. 

“So I say this to you, Traitorous. No one is beyond redemption.”

The White Knight’s voice rang out through the domain of men and angels. 

“Let me help you destroy Praes.”

Traitorous stared at David, the hero rising to his feet. 

“We will tear down Praes, and build a new nation in its place.”

The White Knight held out a hand to the Dread Emperor, as the sun rose behind him.

“I believe that together, we can change this.”

Beams of light chased away the night, as the hero waited for the villain to take his hand.

“Please.” David begged. “Let me help you.”

A shudder shook its way through Traitorous’s body. He could practically taste the story the hero was offering. 

Three repentant villains, accompanied by the White Knight, returning to Praes to share the light that had been shared with them. The Shining Prince might even accompany them, a representative of Callow with the authority to finally negotiate a white peace after centuries of red and bloody war.

That band of five would return, and tear Praes apart, down to its foundations. The Tower would fall, and a new reign would start. Traitorous would still be Emperor, but dread no longer. 

Traitorous would finally achieve his goal, and more than that. He could reshape that new society as he wished. And there was nothing to prevent him from turning upon his companions when the time struck. It was everything that he had wished for.

All that he had to do was take David’s hand.

Traitorous stood from his chair. The two men watched each other, the fate of a nation resting in the next few moments.

Oh, Traitorous realized. That was why he had killed his brother. It wasn’t enough to just win. Everyone else had to lose as well.

Traitorous clasped the White Knight’s hand. Relief and hope shot through the man’s eyes. 

The Dread Emperor grinned, wide and mad. In his off hand, he called his Name to him, forming that familiar blade. He swung it at David’s neck, trailing smoke and blood.

After all, the hero had only bargained for truce til daybreak. 

Traitorous felt the edge connect with the hero's neck, before it stopped as if it hit an immovable object. The White Knight’s eyes burned white, before in an explosion of Light ripped through the air and tossed Traitorous away.

Traitorous landed on pure white nothingness, the surroundings blasted away by an angel’s displeasure. He pushed himself to his feet to find himself in an almost empty void.

There was him, battered and tired, alone and abandoned. And where the White Knight had been standing, there was instead his rider.

The angel floated in the air, an interwoven mass of wings made of pure white fire. It twisted in and over itself, a thousand wings with a thousand feathers each, all connected to each other. It would drive lesser men mad just to look upon it. 

Traitorous felt a smile stretch across his face, a mouthful of daggers and hunger. Finally, it was time to play with the Hashmallim.


	11. Chapter 11

When Traitorous was young, he had learned that nothing infuriated those more powerful than him than the sheer refusal to take them seriously. With a smile on his face, and a laugh on his lips, he had endured all manner of beatings, degradations, and desperate clawing in the mud to survive. Somewhere along the way, that mad grin had transformed from an act of defiance into a rush of sheer unfiltered joy at another closely scraped victory, another fallen enemy.

But looking up at the angel, Traitorous was brought back to the days when the only purpose he had was to survive. To steal another meal, a coin, another day, because defiance would only be rewarded with death.

Traitorous prepared himself. His Name had returned to him, curling around him like smoke, a wary eye on the spawn of the Heavens in front of him. It was an arrogant and covetous Name, but even it knew that to act rashly here invited punishment.

An angel was not an easy opponent to face.

The hands of the Heavens were relatively simple things. They were inflexible masses of power that empowered the heroes that most resonated with them. Incapable of true thought, they guided all of their actions by a single truth, different for every choir. They were also, as far as Traitorous knew, unkillable. For a villain to match gazes with an angel was to invite death. 

But Traitorous wasn’t a Black Knight, to subdue his enemies with force, or a Warlock to entrap them with mystical might. He was Dread Emperor Traitorous, who wove doom through words and betrayal. And nothing in this realm or the next would stop him.

But first, he had to overcome this minor obstacle. He simply had to determine how to corrupt an incorruptible angel, without being smited or brainwashed. 

Traitorous smiled. Best to get started then. He spread his arms in mock supplication to the Hashmallim.

“Greetings, my d-”

_ REPENT. _

The word slammed into Traitorous like a burning lash, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

_ REPENT. YOU MAY YET BE FORGIVEN. _

The gaze of the Hashmallim descended on Traitorous, and his body turned to ash. His hands crumbled as he watched, the mere presence of the angel anathema to his existence as a villain.

_ REPENT. YOU MAY YET BE FORGIVEN. REPENT. _

Traitorous attempted to dissolve into smoke to save what was left of his body, only to find himself dissipated, cast over a thousand miles. As he was struggling to understand what had happened, a wave of light shone out, and Traitorous coalesced on the ground, kneeling before the Hashmallim.

_ REPENT. REPENT. REPENT. _

And then the angel started to reach out.

_ REPENT. YOU MAY YET BE FORGIVEN. REPENT. _

It showed him visions of his life. The chanting intertwined with every sin he had committed. Every dagger in the dark, every promise broken. His brother’s corpse lying at his feet. Consigning an entire family to death. Everything was replayed to him, again and again, all the while the choir sang of remorse and repentance. 

Face on the ground, and completely outmatched, there was only one thing that Traitorous could do. He laughed. He laughed, as blood streamed from his eyes in a grotesque mockery of regret. He laughed, as the angel drew back in confusion from this insane mortal.

“I am Traitorous.” The Dread Emperor rasped out. “In name and deed.”

He pushed himself to his feet. 

“I am the heir to a hundred years of murder and betrayal.” 

Slowly, a shadow started to stretch from the Dread Emperor’s feet, swallowing up the white void.

“I have cheated, stolen, and most of all, lied more than anyone alive.”

In response, the angel only burned brighter, as Light fought with the pooling shadow.

“You seem to be belabouring under a misapprehension, my dear Hashmallim.”

There was a pause, as if the angel couldn’t believe what he had just said. Traitorous grinned through a bloody mouth.

“I am incapable of redemption.”

To say that the angel of Contrition roared would be a lie. It had no mouth to scream through, and no sound actually came from the otherworldly being. Instead, a great and terrible pressure tore through the air, as the angel demonstrated its displeasure. It was if a thousand stones were pressing down on Traitorous, attempting to squeeze out every inch of evil inside of him.

The smile was etched onto his face now, a caricature of glee and insanity. Evidently, the angel disagreed with him. What would happen if he convinced it otherwise? What would happen if an angel of Contrition believed that humans were incapable of redemption?

Traitorous longed to find out.

“Let me teach you  _ why _ .”

The angel finally moved, its wings stretching out to envelop the mortal in front of it, let its holy fire reveal the consequences of his many sins.

Traitorous stood there, unmoving.  _ First _ , he thought,  _ I have to set the stage _ .

“This is my soul, and I am the master of this domain.”

The void surrounding them flashed pitch black, beasts beginning to howl in the distance. Traitorous dissipated into smoke, blending with the shadows, ruling over this space as its sole master. If the White Knight had been here, he could have challenged Traitorous’s claim. But with the angel either unwilling, or unable, the area was Traitorous’s to control. 

The angel’s fire lit up the shadow surrounding it, burning away the night. It swept a hundred wings at where the villain had been kneeling, only to find Traitorous disappeared into the darkness.

_ Next _ , Traitorous thought,  _ distract it. _

From the darkness came a short woman with a broadsword that looked larger across than she was tall. She was the spitting image of the Black Knight when Traitorous had been an unremarkable street rat, except for the fact that she was made entirely out of shadows, with unblinking burning red eyes. Her decision to listen to that same unremarkable street rat’s gossip that the Warlock was trying to kill her had led to an untimely demise.

She was joined by the Joyful Priest, a hero that had been a part of the first heroic band that Traitorous had ever dealt with, his kindly features cast in a hateful snarl by the darkness that made up his body. When Traitorous had begged for the man’s help in redemption, the man’s refusal to kill the villain had splintered the group, allowing Traitorous to gain the upper hand.

More and more Named walked out of the recesses of his soul, all manipulated into serving Traitorous’s purposes. The angel let its flaming gaze rest upon his army of the damned and the dead, as they began to attack. 

A hundred different Named attacked in a hundred different ways, all to no effect. Blows that could turn rock to dust were brushed aside by an errant feather. Great sorceries that had burned down cities were simply absorbed in the face of a greater power. Even twisted mockeries of the Light left no more than singes upon the wings of the Hashmallim. The Named died in droves, swept out of existence by a wing, or even evaporating under the sheer presence of a being that was beyond mortal limits.

_ Frustrate it _ , Traitorous thought.  _ Anger blinds. _

A dagger shot out of the darkness to embed itself in a wing of the angel of Contrition, and for the first time the angel was wounded. 

The fire that the wing was made of burned brighter, until it became almost blinding to look at, and when it dimmed down there was no blemish left by the villain’s attack. Another wing bent in a way displeasing to Traitorous’s eye, geometries warped to so that the tip of its wing was pointing at the darkness that the dagger originated from. It let out a keening cry, before a thundering ray of Light blasted the darkness.

Agony shot through him, and he barely kept from crying out. It felt like a part of his own soul had been set on fire, which might even be accurate. Traitorous reached out with his senses to the area, and found it completely cut off from his control, returned to the white void that was the angel’s domain. He expected that whether his entire soul being forcefully turned to a white void would brainwash him into a loyal footsoldier of the Heavens or merely kill him, he wouldn’t enjoy the results.

The angel called out its continual cry of repentance, but with an added edge now. To ascribe complex emotions to it was a fool’s game, but Traitorous had been called worse. To his eyes, it was worried. It hadn’t ever faced a villain quite so intransigent. 

_ The hook _ , Traitorous thought.  _ Create the story. _

The phantoms slowed, then stopped their futile attacks on the angel, before vanishing back into the shadows they were made of. They were replaced by a single voice, echoing from every inch of the surrounding blackness.

“Look at me. An unrepentant sinner, a wound upon creation. It angers you, doesn’t it?”

_ REPENT _ , was the angels only response, but for as much as Contrition rewrote men in their own fashion, so too had men changed these angels closest to them. And what was the most human emotion, other than anger? It pulsed underneath the surface of the angel, chained and channeled to heavenly purpose.

“You are forced to abide by rules, allow vermin to scrape free while Good is constrained.”

It was hard for Traitorous to gauge the mood of an inhuman mass of fire and wings, but he felt that the Hashmallim was agreeing with him. Now to push, and start the sell.

“Don’t you wish that you could save more?”

_ REPENT. YOU MAY YET BE FORGIVEN. _

There was no reaction to Traitorous’s words. He tried to decide whether to push on in this vein, or try a different tact. The Hashmallim’s continuing chant was beginning to get on Traitorous’s nerves. A different tack, he decided. If greed didn’t stir the angel, perhaps pride would.

“You know, I’m surprised that you even bother trying to redeem people.”

The angel writhed in the air, wings twisting furiously, batting away the shadows. Traitorous grinned. Now, that was a reaction.

“It’s useless, you know. Down here in the dirt, we’re all like me. Poison to the core.”

The angel of Contrition burned brighter at his words. Now, to strike while the iron was hot.

“None of us can be redeemed.”

His sneering voice echoed through the cavernous void, and the Hashmallim went berserk. Every wing unfurled, and prepared to paint Traitorous’s soul in the image of a penitent. An empty shell that would lament and wail, swear to do good, and die carrying that banner.

Beams of Light lashed out, dyeing the world white. Nothing was left but a soul sworn to the Hashmallim. Nothing, except for the small strands of shadow that ran through the realm. They lay still, shattered remnants of the man who had once been Traitorous. Except, the strings of shade, combined with the blank white of the void made it almost seem like the domain itself was a single large grin that stretched around the angel, enveloping it from every direction.

_ Now _ , Traitorous thought,  _ the knife. _

As the Hashmallim gazed upon its work, a single thread of darkness darted towards the angel. Traitorous reformed himself, taking the form a human once more, but the damage done by Contrition was undeniable. He had countless gaping holes in his body, shards of his self-identity completely obliterated by the angel’s devastating attack. One of his arms was simply gone. But he only needed a single hand to deliver this final blow.

The angel turned, finally noticing the villain’s survival, but it was too late. Overextended from its attempt to annihilate the villain, the spawn of the heavens could only watch as a bloody blade sunk deep into its heart. 

Traitorous’s Name roared in his veins, demanding he  **control** the Hashmallim, bend it to his every whim. Traitorous laughed through bloody teeth. Even he was not so arrogant as to think he could force the angel to submit. 

“None of us can be forgiven.” Traitorous whispered to the angel instead, poison dripping with every syllable. He reached out with his aspect to  **skim** the angel, just the slightest amount. And then his aspect touched Contrition. 

Traitorous was dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the angelic essence. It was not meant to be comprehended by mortal minds, and yet its purpose required it to interact and mold mortals to obey the commandments of the Gods Above. And so it could only manipulate them in the simplest and crudest fashions, the creation of a single emotion. But in its simplicity, it found strength. Its slow inevitable grinding down of Creation forced all to its will. 

To Traitorous, it appeared as a single, perfect sphere, always rolling, never stopping, greater than anything within its path. And so when he reached out to  **twist** the angel, he simply redirected the sphere ever so slightly. It was almost imperceptible. Just enough for it to be slightly more aggressive, slightly more unforgiving. The Hashmallim graced him with the full weight of their attention. 

_ REPENT. YOU WILL NOT BE FORGIVEN. _

Traitorous laughed, even as his bones snapped and fire scorched his soul. Proof, even these premier servants of stillness were not untouchable. But just this wasn’t enough. He reached out to  **twist** it further, but now his victory worked against him. Contrition had run out of patience for the likes of him, and batted away his attempts to steer it.

As the air was driven from his lungs, and his eyes began to dim, Traitorous did not fear. His death had already been bargained for. And now, his debtors would come to collect. Time did not stop, as much as time was a physical thing in this realm of contrast and will. It merely slowed, the pain of his soul being forcibly dissolved fading away. Not stopped or healed, merely set aside for the moment.

The Ancient Gods would not brook a mere angel stealing their priest after all.

Traitorous felt their attention on him, questioning if their leal servant had finally been overcome. The great and bloody idols of his youth had watched over him, through every crimson sacrifice and every ruined hero. And yet, they did not reach out. 

“Have I not done your will?” Traitorous asked the gods of his ancestors. There was a silent whisper of assent.

“Have I not slain your enemies?” He questioned again. Again, the Hungry Gods agreed.

“Do I not deserve my due?” There was only silence. Then, like a lover’s caress, they assented for a third and final time. Whispered into his ear they asked the same question all before and all after him would hear. A last wish, to shape the world as he saw fit.

Traitorous grinned, wide enough to swallow the whole world.

“How do I corrupt this angel?” 

The Gods Below answered with a single sentence, before they withdrew, and left him in the arms of the Hashmallim. An angel could not be corrupted. Traitorous would have laughed if he had any breath left in his lungs. 

As the life drained out of him, he wondered if this was the end. His plans in shambles, his goals unfulfilled. His final foe, a representation of that ideal he had never found in his life. The truly incorruptible. Except, it rang false to his ears. Even though the Everburning Gods had decried it as impossible.

And then Traitorous realized what he had to do. 

The angel was curled around the dissolving shards of his body, right next to its center, if such a being could be said to have one. Traitorous called on his Name to form a single dagger, red and black in equal shares. Then, with a  **twist** of will he broke off his aspect to fill the dagger. He screamed. The Hashmallim saw this weapon, filled with a soul that had corrupted all it came across, and began to flee. Traitorous seized the knife in his teeth, teeth bared in a final act of spite, and rammed it into the angel’s chest.

Men could be corrupted, yet angels could not. But what if the being was some horrific amalgamation of the two? An angel, but with the soul of a man. 

The angel screamed, and the light became blinding.

Traitorous felt it. For a single heartbeat, the angel was scared. Confused. 

Uncertain.

“Look at what I’ve done to you.” The Dread Emperor whispered. These first few moments would define how this unprecedented newborn would forever be.

“Look at how dirty and broken we are.” It was birthed on poison and madness, ruin and destruction its only guide.

“We don’t deserve to live.” The being listened. And then it acted.

A blast destroyed the void, and Traitorous felt himself flung backwards, returned to Creation as if he had never left. 

He slammed into something, and pain washed through him. He gasped for breath. He felt broken inside, a part of himself lost that would never be found. He felt bile rising up in his throat. He vomited. For long moments, he lay there on the ground, face in a puddle of vomit. Was this how High Lord Abraxis had felt when he suffocated in his own vomit? A boot to the head solved his problem.

Hands dragged him up until he lay against a broken slab of wall. 

“What did you do to the White Knight.” Traitorous tried to focus his eyes enough to determine who was talking. Evidently he had taken too long to respond, as a second kick was directed towards his side. A choked laugh tore its way out of his throat. Or was it a sob? 

“I simply,” Traitorous paused to catch his breath, and marshall his thoughts. “Had a nice conversation. With him and his pet angel.” A growl split the air, and Traitorous’s head had finally cleared enough to see the Commander towering over him, the Apprentice lurking nearby. 

“I promise,” Traitorous began, hand weakly scrabbling within his cloak. “That if you let me go.” The Apprentice graced his aching stomach with another kick. The pain jolted him, and the wooden duck tucked in his cloak slipped from his fingers to land roughly on the ground. “There will be no fowl play.” He finished. Did either of them even get the pun? Well, let no one ever say that he hadn’t suffered for his art.

The two heroes exchanged a look, and Traitorous saw his death writ in that exchange. 

‘Wait.” He croaked out. “May I say my final words?” Traitorous looked behind them, where the White Knight was fallen on the ground, eagle spread. The hero opened his mouth and screamed. And out of that open mouth, birthed with a screeching as if reality itself was being shredded, an amorphous thing of light and shadows tore its way into Creation.

“Just as planned.” Traitorous laughed.


	12. Chapter 12

The heroes turned to face the new threat, the fallen angel continuing its entrance. It ripped its way into the air, accompanied by the terrible sound of a hero’s ideals being ruined. 

The formless mass of fire was no longer the pure white that it had appeared in Traitorous’s soul, instead a dirty grey, stained through. It attempted to take its old form with thousand wings, but entire limbs would shudder, before breaking apart, unable to maintain cohesion. The angel tore at itself, either uncomprehending, or simply refusing to believe that it had changed, and so its form would change as well.

With the heroes distracted, Traitorous prepared to engage them in the way in which he was unsurpassed. Running away like a coward. Marshalling his Name, he began to dissolve into smoke, only for a sudden searing pain like red hot coals in his soul to cause him to cry out. The heroes snapped back towards the Dread Emperor, suddenly reminded of who had caused all this misery to happen.

Pushing past the pain of using a hastily mutilated Name, Traitorous dissolved into smoke as quickly as he could, fleeing from the consequences of his actions. The Apprentice snarled, and a lasso of fire appeared in her hand, lashing out to restrain the villain from escaping. Pushing through the cracks behind him, Traitorous fled into the houses, focused solely on absconding. Yet that one heartbeat where he had reeled from pain put paid to his plans. 

The lasso hooked around the tail of the cloud of shadows that was Traitorous and vaporized all that it touched. He tumbled back into being, repressing a screech of pain. Leveraging himself against the wall, he attempted to stumble onwards, only to fall flat on his face when he attempted to run on a foot that was no longer there. Curled on the floor, he stared at the stump that began slightly above his ankle. Muffled voices argued outside, but they rapidly turned inaudible, a crippled villain not worth pursuing in the face of whatever monster he had summoned.

Traitorous was a large proponent of always looking on the brighter side of life. Broken and battered, mutilated physically and spiritually, any other man might have been despairing. But looking at the stump he had been graced with, Traitorous was simply glad that the wound had already been cauterized by the attack. Heroes were always too compassionate in their attempts to restrain him.

But enough focusing on himself. Traitorous hungered to see how his plot had turned out. Ignoring the pain, he reached out to  **Skim** . To read the currents of Creation, and see the aftershocks as men and gods clashed to see their ideals held. He sunk deep into the aspect, tore himself away from his frail mortal body, and rode the waves of the story that was called Creation.

Everywhere in the city, lesser sparks were shepherded to safety, away from this clash of titans. Brave men and women, rescuing those caught in destruction, keeping the heroes from needing to protect them. They only had the safety of distance, but if the heroes failed, then even that safety would be like dust in the wind.

Floating in the air, the fallen angel had finally found a cohesive form. Where before the angel had been perfect in some indescribable way, every wing and feather fitting together, it was now a horrifying assemblage of a human face and the inhuman purpose of the Hashmallim. Gaping maws were scattered across limbs, feathers growing instead of teeth, eyes opening and closing on every inch of it. No longer were the wings perfectly coiled around each other, fractals within fractals. Instead, they were colliding and twisting as if constructed according to a thousand different ideas, each and every one in direct contrast. And perhaps most disconcerting, was the sound it was making. No refrain for repentance this, but a constant keen, as the angel expressed its horror at both its own existence and the filth ever present in the world.

No, this was no longer an angel of Contrition, Traitorous knew.

His aspect understood the effect this terrible beast, this nephilim, was having on Creation. The name came to him, almost as if the angel itself had announced it to the world. This was a fallen angel of Purification.

And to face it, were mere mortals.

Three small souls stood before the abomination. 

The Commander, a battered steel pillar, splashed with blood and dented, but still standing despite the best efforts of men and armies. 

The Apprentice, an opened book, ink filling the pages as new chapters were revealed, learning and growing from every enemy. 

And lastly, the White Knight. Normally a perfect sun, with the light of the Hashmallim shining brightly through, now the hero was a shadow of himself. The desecration of Contrition had shaken him to the bone, proof that his ideals were false. That some men were beyond redemption.

But those were not the only to face this abomination.

Two more souls stepped up to help.

The Black Knight, ash in the shape of a man. His death was already writ, the direct exposure to Summer’s sun causing his body to fall apart. But he held it together with sheer force of will, determined to right his wrongs. He had been raised in darkness all his life, until Contrition had finally shown him that blinding light only revealed an entirely new world. His footsteps shook the ground, and he stared at the nephilim with a complex mix of emotions. Eventually, he spoke a single word that reverberated along the sinews and tendons of Creation. 

“Repent.” He ordered the angel of Purification.

The Warlock stepped forward, tears continually flowing down her face. She had dealt out cruelties in her pursuit of magnificence, but never been confronted with the consequences. Arrogance and skill had saved her from the fates she dealt to others. The Hashmallim had opened her eyes. How could anyone when faced with the realities of the horrors in this world not choose to help?

“Repent.” She echoed. 

The nephilim stared down at the assembled mortals, those stained and contaminated souls. It had previously lived by a single rule. All must be contrite. Now, it had the ability to choose, that greatest gift that the Gods had given to their Creations, and had been given to itself by the worst of villains.

It had chosen to purify this world. If these deluded and transient souls could understand how broken and tainted they were, all would choose to help it. But their eyes were closed, and so they stood in its way. 

In the end, all would be cleansed. 

The nephilim let out a keening cry, lashing out at the befouled world. Buildings crumbled at the weight of its fury, and the Named were forced to ground.

Traitorous felt the shockwave ripple through Creation, and knew that nothing it broke would ever be repaired. From the lowest men to the greatest of edifices, the fallen angel would cleanse it from reality. 

The taste of it was familiar, that wound on Creation that would never heal. It almost reminded him of a demon. 

Movement from the band of madmen that chose to face down the nephilim brought his attention back to them. 

The White Knight stood tall, staring down his old patron. The repentant villains and steadfast heroes stood behind him. They were tired by the recent battle, and wounds visible and not littered their bodies. Moments before, they had been foes locked in a battle to the death.

Yet despite their wounds and hatreds, a greater threat united them. To submit in the face of this fallen angel would mean death for countless innocents. And so they prepared, hurting and fatigued, knowing that they would likely die.

Five mortals were all that stood before this being of destruction and death.

Traitorous laughed. The fallen angel was already finished. It just didn’t know it yet.

The Black Knight was the first to break the stalemate. 

Faster than any mortal could perceive, he leapt at the angel and struck it. His aspect, to  **crush** his enemies, echoed across the city. In this clash of might between an angel and a mortal, the one to fail was the angel, blasted backward. It skidded across the ruined marketplace, and landed in the lake. It rose again, steam exploding from the surface of the lake, the unearthly fire it was made up of unquenched. It let out its keening cry once more, undamaged by the attack. 

The nephilim turned, and made to return to the city, where the mass of unclean souls demanded purification. The White Knight, leaping on a series of platforms created by the Apprentice put an end to that idea. 

“ **Protect** .” The dog of the heavens called out, a sheen of Light appearing around his body as he flew through clouds of scalding steam. The man drove his sword deep into an eye, barely hanging on as the attack sent the nephilim into a spasm of wings and feathers. 

Still twisting and wailing, another wing aimed itself, and the Knight only had the time to jerk his sword into a protective stance, before a ray of Light blasted him off of the fallen angel. The Black Knight made a wild leap towards the nephilim, only to meet with the same fate.

Its aggressors sinking in the water, the Angel of Purification aimed a wing covered in weeping eyes towards the thousands of souls huddled in fear. A shiver ran through its frame as it gathered the strength to prove that none were beyond its reach. A beam the size of a house shot towards the sinners.

A shimmering mirror of sorcery appeared in the path of the nephilim’s attack of glimmering death, breaking immediately as the blast beat against it. The second shield behind it, a mixture of shadows and blood however, held. Already additional shields were appearing, as the two sorcerers worked together to save Liesse from murderous intent. Foolish mortals attempting to steal even seconds more, uncomprehending the sweet release of death. The fallen angel changed its efforts, shrinking the beam down, but intensifying it. The beam lashed out, the size of a single pinprick, but concentrated so full of anger that it would not be stopped by anything.

“ **Enhance** .” Hoseyn Mifsud cried out, and the shields suddenly merged, becoming a rainbow of interwoven magic. The spear of light crashed into the shield, and for a heartbeat it seemed as if it would hold. The next moment, it shattered into a thousand pieces, the Warlock crying out at the forceful breaking of her aspect. 

But her goal had been accomplished, as the assault had been deflected, clearing the top of the cathedral of Liesse by mere feet.

The fallen angel of Purification prepared a second blast. Now, those monkeys attempting to trick creation had fallen. Nothing stood in its way. All would be purified.

“ **Pinpoint** .” The aspect was quiet, only barely audible. The next moment, an arrow hit the wing preparing to let off a blast at the exact point necessary to deflect it into the lake. The angel whirled, before it saw the nuisance. A mile away, perched on top of a house, the Commander stood, longbow in hand.

The fallen angel paused for a moment, before Creation started to shiver at its anger. One by one, wings aimed to remove the irritating speck from existence, only to continually fail. Shots always obliterated where the hero  _ had _ been, plowing through the air, or were deflected harmlessly into the lake by arrows always landing in the exact right place as if placed there by the hand of a higher power. 

“ **Impart** .” The Commander spoke once more. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, as one, the White and Black Knights rose from the lake. 

The White Knight went low, swiping at eyes and mouths, leaping from limb to limb, aggravating and drawing its attention. And yet it was never able to catch him, the hero always dodging at the last moment, shielding himself with blows with the fallen angel’s own twisting wings. And those few glancing blows that landed only hit a glimmering shield of light, the hero having declared to  **protect** all those who needed it.

The Black Knight went high, climbing above the nephilim on a spiraling series of platforms, until he found a sufficiently large mouth. It wept and wailed, overcome with the pure horror that was existence. The villain leapt into it, and began destroying the fallen angel from the inside. Glimmering light covered him, his counterpart’s aspect to  **protect** serving to shield him from the nephilim’s fire. His spears left gaping rends in the wings, even managing to tear a limb in twain. 

The Named continued their assault, moving in perfect harmony. Every wing lifted up to tear into reality was deflected by the Commander, always moving, never stopping. The White Knight danced along the limbs of the angel, distracting it, keeping it from focusing its attention. The Black Knight tore into the angel itself, leaving gaping wounds, the only one able to actually hurt it. The Apprentice supported them all, sorcery wreathed around her, weaving platforms at the exact places for a Named to retreat or attack. And the Warlock, recovered from the shock of having an aspect broken, was crafting her life’s work. 

A way to bind an angel.

Already, four corners had arisen around where the nephilim was locked in battle. If the Named could delay the abomination for long enough, then banishing the nephilim would be simple. 

And so the minutes dragged on, heroes and villains working in concert, facing a being beyond mortal comprehension, yet together, somehow managing to survive. A single mistake, a moment’s inattention would cause disaster. But every passing second was another victory for them, as the nephilim’s defeat grew closer.

And then, the dominoes began to fall.

Slowly but surely, the Commander’s aspects started to fade. 

That equalizer that had connected the Named, forged them into a harmony, dissipated, and in its place was left only individuals.

The Commander’s arrows no longer unerringly guided themselves to weak points, instead glancing off of wings, or even missing entirely. 

The Apprentice, making up for the blasts that were no longer being deflected, began creating shields once more to block the shots. But focused on defense, she was no longer able to create platforms for the melee combatants.

The Black Knight no longer finding platforms underneath his feet when smacked away from the nephilim, was easily batted away, only able to attack for brief periods.

The White Knight, now almost the sole focus of the fallen angel of Purification, could only hold out for so long. Beams ripped through his aspect, leaving long red gashes. He would parry a ray to his throat, only for a beam to scorch his side, throw himself behind a wing, only for the feathers to turn sharp as steel and leave cuts over his hands. Finally, an errant blast caught him, throwing him into the lake.

The nephilim rose, water coursing down its wings, and prepared to obliterate Liesse. Motes of power began to swirl around the being, the very fabric of Creation twisting as it sought to enforce its will.

The Warlock cried out, her workings unfinished, trap still being constructed. The other Named tried desperately to distract the angel, arrows and spells bouncing off of its skin. 

“ **Extinguish** .” The Black Knight said. Motes of light flicked out, only to reappear in greater numbers.

“ **Halt** .” The White Knight said. The nephilim stilled for a single moment, before resuming its work.

The Warlock watched as those around her desperately failed to buy as much time as possible. She smiled, and realized what she had to do. The arts of Praes were unmatched in sacrifice. And what was self-sacrifice but the greatest of sacrifices?

She drove her glistening red dagger into her heart, and spoke a single word.

“ **Construct** .” 

Her body shriveled as the life left it, magic, soul, and Name intertwining for a final great work. Rainbow walls of magic rose up around the nephilim, perfectly enclosing the fallen angel. 

Yet the power continued to rise inside, the fallen angel not content to go quietly into the night. A final lance to murder thousands.

The Black Knight rose up on a platform, standing directly in the nephilim’s path.

It fired.

“ **Destroy** .” The beam of light engulfed the villain, but went no further. The man dissolved, the terrible power overwhelming him. But as it killed him, the angel’s strength was lost, sapped away forever. The beam ended, and the angel fell into the water, drained and weak. On the platform, nothing was left but dust, and even that was blown away by an errant gust of wind.

The Apprentice saw the destruction, and finally understood the truth that she had been chasing since escaping the Winter Court. There were beings that existed outside of Creation, and they could not be trusted with power. 

Like a sigh, ripples ran through Creation as the woman discarded her old Name in favor of one more fitted to her.

The woman grasped the reins of the magic that sealed the nephilim inside, and found them almost fitted to her hands. The Grim Binder looked upon the fallen spawn of the Heavens and commanded it to submit.

The walls of magic closed in on the nephilim. They broke apart into smaller bands, and soon every wing of the beast was constrained. It struggled weakly, but began to slowly sink into the depths of the lake.

The White Knight struggled onto the fallen angel’s body. He whispered something to it. His companions called for him to return, to let the nephilim sink to the bottom and be forever lost. 

“Anyone can be redeemed.” He said. “Even the irredeemable.”

**Commune** . The aspect rang out, and for the second time that day, the Hashmallim descended. The White Knight became a torrent of white flame, reaching all the way to the Heavens. 

The fire burned away at the mortal as it connected with the fallen angel, as Contrition connected with its fallen kin. There was a reverberation in the air, as the two interacted, each convinced of their own righteousness. For an eternity they argued, trapped in a loop as the Hashmallim attempted to convince their corrupted sibling of its own deficiencies, and the newborn nephilim attempted to persuade their heavenly siblings of the contaminations of the mortal world.

The mortal conduit that connected the two began to fray, soul not capable of bearing the weight of an entire choir of angels manifesting in reality.

In the last moments before the White Knight died, he spoke a single word to his patrons.

“Forgiveness.”

It united the two angels. There could be no forgiveness to those that deliberately did evil.

_ REPENT. YOU WILL NOT BE FORGIVEN _ .

The angels joined once more, and all that was left was a corpse in the water. And on top of it, there was no sign of the White Knight.

Inexorably, the corpse sank into the waters of the Hengest.

Traitorous wrenched himself from his aspect, returning to that limited, mortal perspective. It always felt like dying, whenever he returned from a particularly deep  **skim** . With limbs that felt like they belonged to a stranger, he climbed his way to the roof of the building he had been hiding in, peering out over the battlegrounds that they had made of Liesse.

As Traitorous watched, the two remaining heroes mourned, the angel defeated, but with far too high a cost. Beyond these walls, the armies of Praes lie dead, and with them any hope of a claimant using them to achieve success. 

He felt an emotion rising up within him, the sharp satisfaction of a defeated foe, mixed with the warmth of freedom to do as he wished, washed down with the harsh bite of sacrifice, measured and portioned for success.

It felt like victory. 

But he was still unsatisfied.

A grin crossed his face. Missing parts of his soul and body, he would return to a nation that divided, its riches spent and blood drained. Every man, woman, and child in Praes would be trying to kill him, the man who had broken Praes in vainglorious attempts at victory. And what a simple matter to set them all against each other, for the covenant of the hungry lasted only as long as the meal. His death would tear the nation apart.

What a legacy to leave.


End file.
